1NIFRED  AYRES  h 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE 


OE 


THE  SEVEN  AGES  OF  THE  SOUL 


An  Arrangement  of  Scenes  from  Seven 
Shakespearean  Plays 


BY 


WINIFRED  AYRES  HOPE 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY  WINIFRED  AYRES  HOPE 


NEW  YORK 

SAMUEL    FRENCH 

PUBLISHER 

28-30  WEST  38TH  STREET 


LONDON 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  LTD. 

26    SOUTHAMPTON    STREET 

STRAND 


CHARACTERS  IN  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 


Scene      from      Midsummer . 
Night's  Dream; 
Bottom. 
Quince. 
Flute. 
Snug. 
Snout. 
Titania. 
Puck. 

Scene  from  Twelfth  Night;' 
Maria. 
Sir  Toby. 
Sir  Andrew. 
The  Clown. 
Malvolio. 

Scene  from  As  You  Like  It.^ 
Rosalind. 
Celia. 
Orlando. 

Scene  from  Henry  Vth. 
Henry. 
Katharine. 
Alice. 

Scene  from  Much  Ado  About  - 
Nothing. 
Beatrice. 
Benedict. 
Hero. 
Claudio. 
Leonato. 
Don  Pedro. 


EPISODE  I. 

The  Infant — Simplicity. 


EPISODE  II. 

The  Child — Exuberance. 


EPISODE  III. 

The  Youth — Romance. 


EPISODE  IV. 

The  Youth — Enthusiasm. 


EPISODE  V. 

The        Cynic — World-weari- 
ness. 


384868 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 


Scene  from  Winter's  Tale.    -^ 
Hermione. 
Leontes. 
Paulina. 
First  Lord. 
Officer. 
Perdita. 
Camillo. 

Scene  from  the  Tempest.     -^ 
Prospero. 
Miranda. 
Ferdinand. 
Ariel. 
Gonzalo. 
Alonso. 


EPISODE  VI. 

>  The    Wrestler — Storm 
Stress. 


and 


EPISODE  VII. 

>.  The  Philosopher — Calm  after 
Storm. 


(Band  of  dancing  nymphs  of  the  sea.) 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE 

OR 

THE  SEVEN  AGES  OF  THE  SOUL 


(Enter  before  the  curtain,  PSYCHE,  who  speaks  the 
Prologue.) 

PSYCHE. — 

I  am  the  soul  of  man,  that  Mystery  unsolved, 
Though  ever  pondered  deeper  as  the  ages  pass : 
The  fond  familiar  I  of  subtle  Hindu  thought- 


A  concept  shunned  by  warrior  race  and  merchant 

class : 
But  with  the  Greeks,  whose  hearts  were  tuned  to 

thrill 

When  Beauty  sounded  (be  the  medium  mind, 
Body  or  soul — the  note  was  Beauty  still — ) 
With  these  rare  Greeks,  the  soul  a  God  we  find. 
Psyche  they  called  me,  garlanded  about 
With  myth  and  legend,  breathing  joy  and  woe, 
Hope  and  despair,  but  blossoming  at  last 
Into  the  bliss  that  souls  immortal  know. 
Shakespeare,  that  poet-sage  who  read  men's  hearts, 
Has  drawn  a  picture  of  the  life  of  man : 
Seven  steps  that  lead  from  vale  to  mountain-top, 
And  back  to  valley  dim  in  one  life's  span. 
So  is  man's  life ;  but  I,  the  Soul,  declare 
That  once  I  reach  the  towering  mountain-crest 


6  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

And:  drink  the  light,  my  feet  refuse  to  tread 
The  downward  path-  arid  on  the  heights  they  rest. 
Behold,  I  show  seven  stages  of  the  soul, 
Each   picture   drawn   by   Shakespeare's   matchless 

pen: 

And  as  ye  gaze,  the  meaning  I  unfold 
In  terms  of  soul-life  granted  mortal  men. 

I  am  that  Ariadne's  thread  that  guides 

The  Searcher,  who  would  track  unto  his  lair 

The  Monster  who  devours  human  hearts 

To  some  he  leers  as  Ennui,  some  Despair. 

The  soul  behold  we  first  in  Infancy 

When  clowns  amuse  and  acrobats  delight ; 

The  artisans  who  play  before  the  king 

And  show  forth  Thisbe's  death  (O  woful  sight!) — 

These  do  I  choose  as  type  of  primal  soul : 

How  elemental  they,  in  face  of  complex  man ! 

Yet  such  the  wonder  of  the  human  race 

That  chasms  such  as  this  it  still  can  span ! 

(Midsummer   Night's   Dream:     Rehearsal   scene. 
ACT  i,  SCENE  2;  ACT  3,  SCENE  i.) 

(Enter  QUINCE,  SNUG,  BOTTOM,  FLUTE  and  SNORT.) 

QUIN.     Is  all  our  company  here? 

BOT.  You  were  best  to  call  them  generally,  man 
by  man,  according  to  the  scrip. 

QUIN.  Here  is  the  scroll  of  every  man's  name, 
which  is  thought  fit,  through  all  Athens,  to  play  in 
our  interlude  before  the  duke  and  the  duchess,  on 
his  wedding-day  at  night. 

BOT.  First,  good  Peter  Quince,  say  what  the  play 
treats  on ;  then  read  the  names  of  the  actors ;  and 
so  grow  to  a  point. 

QUIN.    Marry,  our  play  is,  The  most  lamentable 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  7 

Comedy,  and  most  cruel  Death  of  Pyramus  and 
Thisby. 

Box.  A  very  good  piece  of  work,  I  assure  you, 
and  a  merry.  Now,  good  Peter  Quince,  call  forth 
your  actors  by  the  scroll. — Masters,  spread  your- 
selves. 

QUIN.  Answer  as  I  call  you. — Nick  Bottom,  the 
weaver. 

Box.  Ready.  Name  what  part  I  am  for,  and 
proceed. 

QUIN.  You,  Nick  Bottom,  are  set  down  for 
Pyramus. 

Box.    What  is  Pyramus  ?  a  lover,  or  a  tyrant  ? 

QUIN.  A  lover,  that  kills  himself  most  gallant 
for  love. 

Box.  That-  will  ask  some  tears  in  the  true  per- 
forming of  it:  if  I  do  it,  let  the  audience  look  to 
their  eyes ;  I  will  move  storms,  I  will  condole  in 
some  measure.  To  the  rest. — Yet  my  chief  humour 
is  for  a  tyrant :  I  could  play  Ercles  rarely,  or  a  part 
to  tear  a  cat  in,  to  make  all  split. 

The  raging  rocks 
And  shivering  shocks 
Shall  break  the  locks 

Of  prison-gates ; 
And  Phibbus,  car 
Shall  shine  from  far, 
And  make  and  mar 

The  foolish  Fates. 

This  was  lofty ! — Now  name  the  rest  of  the  players. 
— This  is  Ercles'  vein,  a  tyrant's  vein;  a  lover  is 
more  condoling. 

QUIN.     Francis  Flute,  the  bellows-mender. 

FLU.    Here,  Peter  Quince. 

QUIN.    Flute,  you  must  take  Thisby  on  you. 

FLU.    What  is  Thisby  ?  a  wandering  knight  ? 


8  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

QUIN.    It  is  the  lady  that  Pyramus  must  love. 

FLU.  Nay,  faith,  let  not  me  play  a  woman;  I 
have  a  beard  coming. 

QUIN.  That's  all  one :  you  shall  play  it  in  a  mask, 
and  you  may  speak  as  small  as  you  will. 

Box.  An  I  may  hide  my  face,  let  me  play  Thisby 
too.  I'll  speak  in  a  monstrous  little  voice :  '  Thisne, 
Thisne ; ' — '  Ah  Pyramus,  my  lover  dear !  thy  Thisby 
dear,  and  lady  dear ! ' 

QUIN.  No,  no ;  you  must  play  Pyramus : — and 
Flute,  you  Thisby. 

Box.  Well,  proceed,  Quin.  Tom  Snout,  the 
tinker. 

SNOUT.    Here,  Peter  Quince. 

QUIN.  You  must  play,  Pyramus'  father :  myself, 
Thisby 's  father. — Snug,  the  joiner ;  you,  the  lion's 
part : — and,  I  hope,  here  is  a  play  fitted. 

SNUG.  Have  you  the  lion's  part  written?  pray 
you,  if  it  be,  give  it  me,  for  I  am  slow  of  study. 

QUIN.  You  may  do  it  extempore,  for  it  is  noth- 
ing but  roaring. 

Box.  Let  me  play  the  lion  too:  I  will  roar,  that 
I  will  do  any  man's  heart  good  to  hear  me ;  I  will 
roar,  that  I  will  make  the  duke  say,  '  Let  him  roar 
again,  let  him  roar  again.' 

QUIN.  An  you  should  do  it  too  terribly,  you 
would  fright  the  duchess  and  the  ladies,  that  they 
would  shriek ;  and  that  were  enough  to  hang  us  all. 

ALL.  That  would  hang  us,  every  mother's  son. 
Box.  I  grant  you,  friends,  if  you  should  fright 
the  ladies  out  of  their  wits,  they  would  have  no 
more  discretion  but  to  hang  us :  but  I  will  aggra- 
vate my  voice  so,  that  I  will  roar  you  as  gently  as 
any  sucking  dove;  I  will  roar  you  an  'twere  any 
nightingale. 

QUIN.  You  can  play  no  part  but  Pyramus ;  for 
Pyramus  is  a  sweet-faced  man;  a  proper  man,  as 
one  shall  see  in  a  summer's  day;  a  most  lovely, 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  9 

gentleman-like  man :  therefore  you  must  needs  play 
Pyramus. 

EOT.  Well,  I  will  undertake  it.  What  beard  were 
I  best  to  play  it  in  ? 

QUIN.    Why,  what  you  will. 

Box.  I  will  discharge  it  in  either  your  straw- 
colour  beard,  your  orange-tawny  beard,  your  purple- 
in-grain  beard,  or  your  French-crown-colour  beard, 
your  perfect  yellow. 

QUIN.  Some  of  your  French  crowns  have  no 
hair  at  all,  and  then  you  will  play  barefaced. — But, 
masters,  here  are  your  parts :  and  I  am  to  entreat 
you,  request  you,  and  desire  you,  to  con  them  by 
to-morrow  night ;  and  meet  me  in  the  palace  wood, 
a  mile  without  the  town,  by  moonlight :  there  will 
we  rehearse ;  for  if  we  meet  in  the  city,  we  shall  be 
dogged  with  company,  and  our  devices  known.  In 
the  mean  time  I  will  draw  a  bill  of  properties,  such 
as  our  play  wants.  I  pray  you,  fail  me  not. 

BOT.  We  will  meet ;  and  there  we  may  rehearse 
most  obscenely  and  courageously.  Take  pains ;  be 
perfect :  adieu. 

QUIN.    At  the  duke's  oak  we  meet. 

Box.    Enough ;  hold  or  cut  bow-strings.   (Exeunt) 

(SCENE   2.     The  wood.     TITANIA   lying   asleep.) 

(Enter  QUINCE,   SNUG,   BOTTOM,   FLUTE,   SNOUT, 
and  STARVELING.) 

BOT.    Are  we  all  met  ? 

QUIN.  Pat,  pat ;  and  here's  a  marvellous  con- 
venient place  for  our  rehearsal.  This  green  plot 
shall  be  our  stage,  this  hawthorn-brake  our  tiring- 
house;  and  we  will  do  it  in  action  as  we  will  do  it 
before  the  duke. 

BOT.    Peter  Quince, — 

QUIN.     What  sayest  thou,  bully  Bottom? 


10  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

BOT.  There  are  things  in  this  comedy  of  Pyramus 
and  Thisby  that  will  never  please.  First,  Pyramus 
must  draw  a  sword  to  kill  himself ;  which  the  ladies 
cannot  abide.  How  answer  you  that? 

SNOUT.     By'r  lakin,  a  parlous  fear. 

STAR.  I  believe  we  must  leave  the  killing  out, 
when  all  is  done. 

BOT.  Not  a  whit :  I  have  a  device  to  make  all 
well.  Write  me  a  prologue ;  and  let  the  prologue 
seem  to  say,  we  will  do  no  harm  with  our  swords, 
and  that  Pyramus  is  not  killed  indeed ;  and,  for  the 
more  better  assurance,  tell  them  that  I  Pyramus  am 
not  Pyramus,  but  Bottom  the  weaver :  this  will  put 
them  out  of  fear. 

QUIN.  Well,  we  will  have  such  a  prologue ;  and 
it  shall  be  written  in  eight  and  six. 

BOT.  No,  make  it  two  more ;  let  it  be  written  in 
eight  and  eight. 

SNOUT.  Will  not  the  ladies  be  afeard  of  the  lion? 
I  fear  it,  I  promise  you. 

BOT.  Masters,  you  ought  to  consider  with  your- 
selves :  to  bring  in — God  shield  us ! — a  lion  among 
ladies  is  a  most  dreadful  thing;  for  there  is  not  a 
more  fearful  wild-fowl  than  your  lion  living:  and 
we  ought  to  look  to  't. 

SNOUT.  Therefore  another  prologue  must  tell  he 
is  not  a  lion. 

BOT.  Nay,  you  must  name  his  name,  and  half  his 
face  must  be  seen  through  the  lion's  neck ;  and  he 
himself  must  speak  through,  saying  thus,  or  to 
the  same  defect, — '  Ladies/ — or,  '  Fair  ladies, — I 
would  wish  you/ — or,  '  I  would  request  you/ — or, 

1 1  would  entreat  you, — not  to  fear,  not  to  tremble : 
my  life  for  yours.    If  you  think  I  come  hither  as  a 
lion,  it  were  pity  of  my  life :  no,  I  am  no  such  thing ; 
I  am  a  man  as  other  men  are ; '  and  there  indeed  let 
him  name  his  name,  and  tell  them  plainly  he  is  Snug 
the  joiner. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  u 

QUIN.  Well,  it  shall  be  so.  But  there  is  two  hard 
things, — that  is,  to  bring  the  moonlight  into  a  cham- 
ber ;  for,  you  know,  Pyramus  and  Thisby  meet  by 
moonlight. 

SNOUT.  Doth  the  moon  shine  that  night  we  play 
our  play? 

Box.  A  calendar,  a  calendar !  look  in  the  almanac ; 
find  out  moonshine,  find  out  moonshine. 

QUIN.    Yes,  it  doth  shine  that  night. 

Box.  Why,  then  may  you  have  a  casement  of  the 
great  chamber  window,  where  we  play,  open,  and 
the  moon  may  shine  in  at  the  casement. 

QUIN.  Ay;  or  else  one  must  come  in  with  a 
bush  of  thorns  and  a  lantern,  and  say  he  comes  to 
disfigure,  or  to  present,  the  person  of  Moonshine. 
Then,  there  is  another  thing :  we  must  have  a  wall 
in  the  great  chamber ;  for  Pyramus  and  Thisby, 
says  the  story,  did  talk  through  the  chink  of  a  wall. 

SNOUX.  You  can  never  bring  in  a  wall. — What 
say  you,  Bottom? 

Box.  Some  man  or  other  must  present  Wall :  and 
let  him  have  some  plaster,  or  some  loam,  or  some 
rough-cast  about  him,  to  signify  wall ;  and  let  him 
hold  his  fingers  thus,  and  through  that  cranny  shall 
Pyramus  and  Thisby  whisper. 

QUIN.  If  that  may  be,  then  all  is  well.  Come, 
sit  down,  every  mother's  son,  and  rehearse  your 
parts. — Pyramus,  you  begin  :  when  you  have  spoken 
your  speech,  enter  into  that  brake ;  and  so  every 
one  according  to  his  cue. 

(Enter  PUCK  behind.) 

PUCK. — 

What  hempen  home-spuns  have  we  swaggering  here, 
So  near  the  cradle  of  the  fairy  queen  ? 
What,  a  play  toward  !     I'll  be  an  auditor ; 
An  actor  too  perhaps,  if  I  see  cause. 


12  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

QUIN.     Speak,   Pyramus. — Thisby,   stand   forth. 
Box.      Thisby,    the    flowers    of    odious    savours 
sweet, — 

QUIN.     Odours,  odours. 

Box.    odours  savours  sweet: 

So  hath  thy  breath,  my  dearest  Thisby  dear. 
But  hark,  a  voice !  stay  thou  but  here  awhile, 
And  by  and  by  I  will  to  thee  appear. 

(Exit.) 

PUCK.  A  stranger  Pyramus  than  e'er  play'd 
here!  (Exit) 

FLU.    Must  I  speak  now  ? 

QUIN.  Ay,  marry,  must  you;  for  you  must 
understand  he  goes  but  to  see  a  noise  that  he  heard, 
and  is  to  come  again. 

FLU. — 

Most  radiant  Pyramus,  most  lily-white  of  hue, 

Of  colour  like  the  red  rose  on  triumphant  brier, 
Most  brisky  Juvenal,  and  eke  most  lovely  Jew, 

As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would  never  tire, 
I'll  meet  thee,  Pyramus,  at  Ninny's  tomb. 

QUIN.  '  Ninus'  tomb,'  man :  why,  you  must  not 
speak  that  yet;  that  you  answer  to  Pyramus:  you 
speak  all  your  part  at  once,  cues  and  all. — Pyramus 
enter :  your  cue  is  past ;  it  is,  '  never  tire/ 

FLU. — 

O, — As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would  never 
tire. 

(Re-enter  PUCK,  and  BOTTOM  with  an  ass's  head.) 

BOT.    If  I  were  fair,  Thisby,  I  were  only  thine. 
QUIN.    O  monstrous  !  O  strange !  we  are  haunted. 
Pray,  masters !  fly,  masters  !     Help ! 

(Exeunt    QUINCE,    SNUG,    FLUTE,    SNOUT,    and 
STARVELING.) 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  13 

PUCK.  — 

I'll  follow  you,  I'll  lead  you  about  a  round, 
Through  bog,  through  bush,  through  brake,  through 

brier  : 
Sometime  a  horse  I'll  be,  sometime  a  hound, 

A  hog,  a  headless  bear,  sometime  a  fire  ; 
And  neigh,   and  bark,   and  grunt,   and  roar,   and 

burn, 
Like  horse,  hound,  hog,  bear,  fire,  at  every  turn. 


Box.  Why  do  they  run  away?  this  is  a  knavery 
of  them  to  make  me  afeard. 

(Re-enter  SNOUT.) 

SNOUT.  O  Bottom,  thou  art  changed  !  what  do  I 
see  on  thee? 

BOT.  What  do  you  see?  you  see  an  ass-head  of 
your  own,  do  you?  (Exit  SNOUT)  / 

(Re-enter  QUINCE.) 

QUIN.  Bless  thee,  Bottom!  bless  thee!  thou  art 
translated.  (Exit) 

BOT.  I  see  their  knavery  :  this  is  to  make  an  ass 
of  me  ;  to  fright  me,  if  they  could.  But  I  will  not 
stir  from  this  place,  do  what  they  can  :  I  will  walk 
up  and  down  here,  and  I  will  sing,  that  they  shall 
hear  I  am  not  afraid.  (Sings) 

The  ousel  cock  so  black  of  hue, 

With  orange-tawny  bill, 
The  throstle  with  his  note  so  true, 

The  wren  with  little  quill,  — 

TITA.     (Azvaking) 

What  angel  wakes  me  from  my  flowery  bed? 
BOT.     (Sings) 


14  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

The  finch,  the  sparrow,  and  the  lark, 

The  plain-song  cuckoo  gray, 
Whose  note  full  many  a  man  doth  mark, 

And  dares  not  answer  nay; — 

for,  indeed,  who  would  set  his  wit  to  so  foolish  a 
bird?  who  would  give  a  bird  the  lie,  though  he  cry 
' cuckoo  '  never  so  ? 

TlTA. 

I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sing  again : 

Mine  ear  is  much  enamour'd  of  thy  note; 

So  is  mine  eye  enthralled  to  thy  shape; 

And  thy  fair  virtue's  force  perforce  doth  move  me 

On  the  first  view  to  say,  to  swear,  I  love  thee. 

Box.  Methinks,  mistress,  you  should  have  little 
reason  for  that :  and  yet,  to  say  the  truth,  reason 
and  love  keep  little  company  together  now-a-days ; 
the  more  the  pity,  that  some  honest  neighbours  will 
not  make  them  friends.  Nay,  I  can  gleek  upon 
occasion. 

TITA.     Thou  art  as  wise  as  thou  art  beautiful. 

Box.  Not  so,  neither :  but  if  I  had  wit  enough 
to  get  out  of  this  wood,  I  have  enough  to  serve  mine 
own  turn. 

TIXA. — 

Out  of  this  wood  do  not  desire  to  go : 
Thou  shalt  remain  here,  whether  thou  wilt  or  no. 
I  am  a  spirit  of  no  common  rate : 
The  summer  still  doth  tend  upon  my  state ; 
And  I  do  love  thee :  therefore,  go  with  me. 
I'll  give  thee  fairies  to  attend  on  thee; 
And  they  shall  fetch  thee  jewels  from  the  deep, 
And  sing,  while  thou  on  pressed  flowers  dost  sleep : 
And  I  will  purge  thy  mortal  grossness  so, 
That  thou  shalt  like  an  airy  spirit  go. — 

(TIXANIA  leads  BOXXOM  out.) 
CURTAIN. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  15 

PSYCHE. — 

The  second  stage,  the  childhood  of  the  soul : 
The  inarticulate  gurgles  of  delight 
Of  infancy  give  place  to  merry  laughter, 
For  care-free  mirth  makes  all  life's  path-way  bright. 

0  happy  ye,  who  deal  with  little  children ! 
Bethink  ye,  childhood  vanishes  so  soon ; 

Let  those  brief  years  be  precious  to  remember 

The  children's  sun  should  ever  be  at  noon ! 
For  thoughtless,  child-like,  rollicking  carousal, 

1  summon  forth  from  "  Twelfth  Night "  prankish 

knaves, 

To  play  again  for  us  their  merry-making, 
To  dance  their  capers,  and  to  trill  their  staves. 

(Merry  ing -making  scene  from  "  Twelfth  Night:) 
(ACT  i,  SCENE  3,  ACT  2,  SCENE  4.) 

(SCENE  i.    OLIVIA'S  house.) 
(Enter  SIR  TOBY  BELCH  and  MARIA.) 

SIR  To.  What  a  plague  means  my  niece,  to  take 
the  death  of  her  brother  thus?  I  am  sure  care's 
an  enemy  to  life. 

MAR.  By  my  troth,  Sir  Toby,  you  must  come  in 
earlier  o'  nights :  your  cousin,  my  lady,  takes  great 
exceptions  to  your  ill  hours. 

SIR  To.    Why,  let  her  except  before  excepted. 

MAR.  Ay,  but  you  must  confine  yourself  within 
the  modest  limits  of  order. 

SIR  To.  Confine !  I'll  confine  myself  no  finer 
than  I  am :  these  clothes  are  good  enough  to  drink 
in ;  and  so  be  these  boots  too :  an  they  be  not,  let 
them  hang  themselves  in  their  own  straps. 

MAR.  That  quaffing  and  drinking  will  undo  you : 
I  heard  my  lady  talk  of  it  yesterday ;  and  of  a  fool- 


16  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

ish  knight  that  you  brought  in  one  night  here  to  be 
her  wooer. 

SIR  To.     Who,  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek? 

MAR.    Ay,  he. 

SIR  To.     He's  as  tall  a  man  as  any's  in  Illyria. 

MAR.    What's  that  to  the  purpose  ? 

SIR  To.  Why,  he  has  three  thousand  ducats  a 
year. 

MAR.  Ay,  but  he'll  have  but  a  year  in  all  these 
ducats :  he's  a  very  fool  and  a  prodigal. 

SIR  To.  Fie,  that  you'll  say  so !  he  plays  o'  the 
viol-de-gamboys,  and  speaks  three  or  four  lan- 
guages word  for  word  without  book,  and  hath  all 
the  good  gifts  of  nature. 

MAR.  He  hath  indeed,  almost  natural :  for  be- 
sides that  he's  a  fool,  he's  a  great  quarreller;  and 
but  that  he  hath  the  gift  of  a  coward  to  allay  the 
gust  he  hath  in  quarrelling,  'tis  thought  among  the 
prudent  he  would  quickly  have  the  gift  of  a  grave. 

SIR  To.  By  this  hand,  they  are  scoundrels  and 
substractors  that  say  so  of  him.  Who  are  they? 

MAR.  They  that  add,  moreover,  he's  drunk 
nightly  in  your  company. 

SIR  To.  With  drinking  healths  to  my  niece ;  I'll 
drink  to  her  as  long  as  there  is  a  passage  in  my 
throat  and  drink  in  Illyria :  he's  a  coward  and  a 
coystrill  that  will  not  drink  to  my  niece  till  his 
brains  turn  o'  the  toe  like  a  parish-top.  What, 
wench ! — Castiliano  vulgo ;  for  here  comes  Sir 
Andrew  Agueface. 

(Enter  SIR  ANDREW  AGUECHEEK.) 

SIR  AND.  Sir  Toby  Belch!  how  now,  Sir  Toby 
Belch ! 

SIR  To.     Sweet  Sir  Andrew ! 
SIR  AND.     Bless  you,  fair  shrew. 
MAR.    And  you  too,  sir. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  17 

SIR  To.    Accost,  Sir  Andrew,  accost. 

SIR  AND.     What's  that? 

SIR  To.     My  niece's  chambermaid. 

SIR  AND.  Good  Mistress  Accost,  I  desire  better 
acquaintance. 

MAR.     My  name  is  Mary,  sir. 

SIR  AND.     Good  Mistress  Mary  Accost, — 

SIR  To.  You  mistake,  knight :  '  accost '  is  front 
her,  board  her,  woo  her,  assail  her. 

SIR  AND.  By  my  troth,  I  would  not  undertake 
her  in  this  company.  Is  that  the  meaning  of 
'  accost ' ? 

MAR.     Fare  you  well,  gentlemen. 

SIR  To.  An  thou  let  part  so,  Sir  Andrew,  would 
thou  mightst  never  draw  sword  again. 

SIR  AND.  An  you  part  so,  mistress,  I  would  I 
might  never  draw  sword  again.  Fair  lady,  do  you 
think  you  have  fools  in  hand? 

MAR.     Sir,  I  have  not  you  by  the  hand. 

SIR  AND.  Marry,  but  you  shall  have ;  and  here's 
my  hand. 

MAR.  Now,  sir,  '  thought  is  free ' :  I  pray  you, 
bring  your  hand  to  the  buttery-bar  and  let  it  drink. 

SIR  AND.  Wherefore,  sweet-heart?  what's  your 
metaphor  ? 

MAR.     It's  dry,  sir. 

SIR  AND.  Why,  I  think  so :  I  am  not  such  an 
ass  but  I  can  keep  my  hand  dry.  But  what's  your 
jest? 

MAR.    A  dry  jest,  sir. 

SIR  AND.    Are  you  full  of  them  ? 

MAR.  Ay,  sir,  I  have  them  at  my  fingers'  ends : 
marry,  now  I  let  go  your  hand,  I  am  barren.  (Exit) 

SIR  To.  O  knight,  thou  lackest  a  cup  of  canary ! 
when  did  I  see  thee  so  put  down? 

SIR  AND.  Never  in  your  life,  I  think;  unless 
you  see  canary  put  me  down.  Methinks  sometimes 
I  have  no  more  wit  than  a  Christian  or  an  ordinary 


i8  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

man  has ;  but  I  am  a  great  eater  of  beef,  and  I  be- 
lieve that  does  harm  to  my  wit. 

SIR  To.     No  question. 

SIR  AND.  An  I  thought  that,  I  'Id  forswear  it. 
I'll  ride  home  to-morrow,  Sir  Toby. 

SIR  To.    Pourquoi,  my  dear  knight? 

SIR  AND.  What  is  *  pourquoi '  ?  do  or  not  do  ?  I 
would  I  had  bestowed  that  time  in  the  tongues  that 
I  have  in  fencing,  dancing,  and  bear-baiting !  O, 
had  I  but  followed  the  arts ! 

SIR  To.  Then  hadst  thou  had  an  excellent  head 
of  hair. 

SIR  AND.  Why,  would  that  have  mended  my 
hair  ? 

SIR  To.  Past  question ;  for  thou  seest  it  will  not 
curl  by  nature. 

SIR  AND.  But  it  becomes  me  well  enough,  does't 
not? 

SIR  To.    Excellant ;  it  hangs  like  flax  on  a  distaff. 

SIR  AND.  Faith,  Til  home  to-morrow,  Sir  Toby. 
Your  niece  will  not  be  seen ;  or  if  she  be,  it's  four 
to  one  she'll  none  of  me:  the  count  himself  here 
hard  by  woos  her. 

SIR  To.  She'll  none  o'  the  count :  she'll  not  match 
above  her  degree,  neither  in  estate,  years,  nor  wit ; 
I  have  heard  her  swear't.  Tut,  there's  life  in't, 
man. 

SIR  AND.  I'll  stay  a  month  longer.  I  am  a  fel- 
low o'  the  strangest  mind  i'  the  world ;  I  delight  in 
masques  and  revels  sometimes  altogether. 

SIR  To.  Art  thou  good  at  these  kickshawses, 
knight  ? 

SIR  AND.  As  any  man  in  Illyria,  whatsoever  he 
be,  under  the  degree  of  my  betters ;  and  yet  I  will 
not  compare  with  an  old  man. 

SIR  To.  What  is  thy  excellence  in  a  galliard. 
knight  ? 

SIR  AND.     Faith,  I  can  cut  a  caper. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  19 

SIR  To.    And  I  can  cut  the  mutton  to  't. 

SIR  AND.  And  I  think  I  have  the  back-trick 
simply  as  strong  as  any  man  in  Illyria. 

SIR  To.  Wherefore  are  these  things  hid  ?  where- 
fore have  these  gifts  a  curtain  before  'em  ?  are  they 
like  to  take  dust,  like  Mistress  Mall's  picture?  why 
dost  thou  not  go  to  church  in  a  galliard  and  come 
home  in  a  coranto?  My  very  walk  should  be  a 
jig;  dost  thou  mean?  Is  it  a  world  to  hide  virtues 
in  ?  I  did  think,  by  the  excellent  constitution  of  thy 
leg,  it  was  formed  under  the  star  of  a  galliard. 

SIR  AND.  Ay,  'tis  strong,  and  it  does  indifferent 
well  in  a  flame-coloured  stock.  Shall  we  set  about 
some  revels? 

SIR  To.  What  shall  we  do  else?  were  we  not 
born  under  Taurus? 

SIR  AND.     Taurus !     That's  sides  and  heart. 

SIR  To.  No,  sir;  it  is  legs  and  thighs.  Let  me 
see  thee  caper.  Ha !  higher !  ha,  ha !  excellent ! 
Approach,  Sir  Andrew ;  not  to  be  a-bed  after  mid- 
night is  to  be  up  betimes ;  and  '  diluculo  surgere/ 
thou  know'st, — 

SIR  AND.  Nay,  by  my  troth,  I  know  not ;  but  I 
know,  to  be  up  late  is  to  be  up  late. 

SIR  To.  A  false  conclusion :  I  hate  it  as  an 
unfilled  can.  To  be  up  after  midnight  and  to  go  to 
bed  then,  is  early ;  so  that  to  go  to  bed  after  mid- 
night is  to  go  to  bed  betimes.  Does  not  our  life 
consist  of  the  four  elements? 

SIR  AND.  Faith,  so  they  say;  but  I  think  it 
rather  consists  of  eating  and  drinking. 

vSiR  To.  Thou  'rt  a  scholar ;  let  us  therefore  eat 
and  drink. — Marian,  I  say !  a  stoup  of  wine ! 

(Enter  CLOWN.) 

SIR  AND.     Here  comes  the  fool,  i'  faith. 
CLO.     How  now,  my  hearts !  did  you  never  see 
the  picture  of  '  we  three  '  ? 


20  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

SIR  To.    Welcome,  ass.    Now  let's  have  a  catch. 

SIR  AND.  By  my  troth,  the  fool  has  an  excellent 
breast.  I  had  rather  than  forty  shillings  I  had 
such  a  leg,  and  so  sweet  a  breath  to  sing,  as  the 
fool  has. — In  sooth,  thou  wast  in  very  gracious  fool- 
ing last  night,  when  thou  spokest  of  Pigrogromitus, 
of  the  Vapians  passing  the  equinoctial  of  Queubus : 
'twas  very  good,  i'  faith.  I  sent  thee  sixpence  for 
thy  leman :  hadst  it  ? 

CLO.  I  did  impeticos  thy  gratillity ;  for  Malvo- 
lio's  nose  is  no  whipstock :  my  lady  has  a  white 
hand,  and  the  Myrmidons  are  no  bottle-ale  houses. 

SIR  AND.  Excellent!  why,  this  is  the  best  fool- 
ing, when  all  is  done.  Now,  a  song. 

SIR  To.  Come  on ;  there  is  sixpence  for  you : 
let's  have  a  song. 

CLO.  Would  you  have  a  love-song,  or  a  song  of 
good  life? 

SIR  To.     A  love-song,  a  love-song. 

SIR  AND.    Ay,  ay :  I  care  not  for  good  life. 

CLO.     (Sings} 

O  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? 
O,  stay  and  hear ;  your  true  love  's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low. 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting, 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 
SIR  AND.    Excellent  good,  i'  faith. 
SIR  To.     Good,  good. 

CLO.     (Sings) 

What  is  love?  'tis  not  hereafter; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter ; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  21 

SIR  AND. — 

A  mellifluous  voice,  as  I  am  true  knight. 

SIR  To.    A  contagious  breath. 

SIR  AND.    Very  sweet  and  contagious,  i'  faith. 

SIR  To.  To  hear  by  the  nose,  it  is  dulcet  in  con- 
tagion. But  shall  we  make  the  welkin  dance  in- 
deed? shall  we  rouse  the  night-owl  in  a  catch  that 
will  draw  three  souls  out  of  one  weaver?  shall  we 
do  that? 

SIR  AND.  An  you  love  me,  let's  do  it:  I  am  dog 
at  a  catch. 

CLO.  By  'r  lady,  sir,  and  some  dogs  will  catch 
well. 

SIR  AND.  Most  certain.  Let  our  catch  be, '  Thou 
knave.' 

CLO.  '  Hold  thy  peace,  thou  knave,'  knight  ?  I 
shall  be  constrained  in  't  to  call  thee  knave,  knight. 

SIR  AND.  'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  con- 
strained one  to  call  me  knave.  Begin,  fool:  it 
begins  '  Hold  thy  peace.' 

CLO.    I  shall  never  begin  if  I  hold  my  peace. 

SIR  AND.  Good,  i'  faith.  Come,  begin.  (Catch 
sung) 

(Enter  MARIA.) 

MAR.  What  a  caterwauling  do  you  keep  here ! 
If  my  lady  have  not  called  up  her  steward  Malvolio 
and  bid  him  turn  you  out  of  doors,  never  trust  me. 

SIR  To.  My  lady's  a  Cataian,  we  are  politicians, 
Malvolio's  a  Peg-a-Ramsey,  and  '  Three  merry  men 
be  we.'  Am  not  I  consanguineous  ?  am  I  not  of  her 
blood?  Tillyvally,  lady!  (Sings)  '  There  dwelt  a 
man  in  Babylon,  lady,  lady ! ' 

CLO.  Beshrew  me,  the  knight's  in  admirable 
fooling. 

SIR  AND.  Ay,  he  does  well  enough  if  he  be  dis- 
posed, and  so  do  I  too:  he  does  it  with  a  better 
grace,  but  I  do  it  more  natural. 


22  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

SIR  To.  (Sings')  '  O,  the  twelfth  day  of  Decem- 
ber/— 

MAR.    For  the  love  o'  God,  peace ! 

(Enter  MALVOLIO.) 

MAL.  My  masters,  are  you  mad?  or  what  are 
you?  Have  you  no  wit,  manners,  nor  honesty,  but 
to  gabble  like  tinkers  at  this  time  of  night?  Do 
ye  make  an  alehouse  of  my  lady's  house,  that  ye 
squeak  our  your  coziers'  catches  without  any  mitiga- 
tion or  remorse  of  voice?  Is  there  no  respect  of 
place,  persons,  nor  time  in  you? 

SIR  To.  We  did  keep  time,  sir,  in  our  catches. 
Sneck  up ! 

MAL.  Sir  Toby,  I  must  be  round  with  you.  My 
lady  bade  me  tell  you,  that,  though  she  harbours 
you  as  her  kinsman,  she's  nothing  allied  to  your 
disorders.  If  you  can  separate  yourself  and  your 
misdemeanours,  you  are  welcome  to  the  house;  if 
not,  an  it  would  please  you  to  take  leave  of  her,  she 
is  very  willing  to  bid  you  farewell. 

SIR  To.  '  Farewell,  dear  heart,  since  I  must  needs 
be  gone/ 

MAR.     Nay,  good  Sir  Toby. 

CLO.  *  His  eyes  do  show  his  days  are  almost 
done/ 

MAL.    Is  't  even  so? 

SIR  To.    *  But  I  will  never  die/ 

CLO.    Sir  Toby,  there  you  lie. 

MAL.    This  is  much  credit  to  you. 

SIR  To.    'Shall  I  bid  him  go?' 

CLO.    '  What  an  if  you  do  ?  ' 

SIR  To.     '  Shall  I  bid  him  go,  and  spare  not  ? ' 

CLO.    '  O  no,  no,  no,  no,  you  dare  not/ 

SIR  To.  Out  o'  tune,  sir?  ye  lie.  Art  any  more 
than  a  steward?  Dost  thou  think,  because  thou  art 
virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale? 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  23 

CLO.  Yes,  by  Saint  Anne,  and  ginger  shall  be 
hot  i'  the  mouth  too. 

SIR  To.  Thou  'rt  i'  the  right. — Go,  sir,  rub  your 
chain  with  crums. — A  stoup  of  wine,  Maria ! 

MAL.  Mistress  Mary,  if  you  prized  my  lady's 
favour  at  any  thing  more  than  contempt,  you  would 
not  give  means  for  this  uncivil  rule :  she  shall  know 
of  it,  by  this  hand.  (Exit) 

MAR.     Go  shake  your  ears. 

SIR  AND.  'Twere  as  good  a  deed  as  to  drink  when 
a  man's  a-hungry,  to  challenge  him  the  field,  and 
then  to  break  promise  with  him  and  make  a  fool  of 
him. 

SIR  To.  Do't,  knight :  I'll  write  thee  a  challenge ; 
or  I'll  deliver  thy  indignation  to  him  by  word  of 
mouth. 

MAR.  Sweet  Sir  Toby,  be  patient  for  to-night ; 
since  the  youth  of  the  count's  was  to-day  with  my 
lady,  she  is  much  out  of  quiet.  For  Monsieur  Mal- 
volio,  let  me  alone  with  him ;  if  I  do  not  gull  him 
into  a  nayword,  and  make  him  a  common  recreation, 
do  not  think  I  have  wit  enough  to  lie  straight  in 
my  bed :  I  know  I  can  do  it. 

SIR  To.  Possess  us,  possess  us ;  tell  us  something 
of  him. 

MAR.  Marry,  sir,  sometimes  he  is  a  kind  of 
puritan. 

SIR  AND.  O,  if  I  thought  that,  I  'Id  beat  him  like 
a  dog! 

SIR  To.  What,  for  being  a  puritan?  thy  ex- 
quisite reason,  dear  knight? 

SIR  AND.    I  have  no  exquisite  reason  for  't,  but  I  * 
have  reason  good  enough. 

MAR.  The  devil  a  puritan  that  he  is,  or  anything 
constantly,  but  a  time-pleaser ;  an  affectioned  ass, 
that  cons  state  without  book  and  utters  it  by  great 
swarths  ;  the  best  persuaded  of  himself,  so  crammed, 
as  he  thinks,  with  excellencies,  that  it  is  his  grounds 


24  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

of  faith  that  all  that  look  on  him  love  him ;  and  on 
that  vice  in  him  will  my  revenge  find  notable  cause 
to  work. 

SIR  To.    What  wilt  thou  do? 

MAR.  I  will  drop  in  his  way  some  obscure  epistles 
of  love ;  wherein,  by  the  colour  of  his  beard,  the 
shape  of  his  leg,  the  manner  of  his  gait,  the  expres- 
sure  of  his  eye,  forehead,  and  complexion,  he  shall 
find  himself  most  feelingly  personated.  I  can  write 
very  like  my  lady  your  niece :  on  a  forgotten  matter 
we  can  hardly  make  distinction  of  our  hands. 

SIR  To.    Excellent !    I  smell  a  device. 

SIR  AND.    I  have't  in  my  nose  too. 

SIR  To.  He  shall  think,  by  the  letters  that  thou 
wilt  drop,  that  they  come  from  my  niece,  and  that 
she's  in  love  with  him. 

MAR.  My  purpose  is,  indeed,  a  horse  of  that 
colour. 

SIR  AND.  And  your  horse  now  would  make  him 
an  ass. 

MAR.    Ass,  I  doubt  not. 

SIR  AND.    O,  'twill  be  admirable ! 

MAR.  Sport  royal,  I  warrant  you :  I  know  my 
physic  will  work  with  him.  I  will  plant  you  two, 
and  let  the  fool  make  a  third,  where  he  shall  find 
the  letter :  observe  his  construction  of  it.  For  this 
night,  to  bed,  and  dream  on  the  event.  Farewell. 
(£**0 

SIR  To.     Good-night,  Penthesilea. 

SIR  AND.    Before  me,  she's  a  good  wench. 

SIR  To.  She's  a  beagle,  true-bred,  and  one  that 
adores  me.  What  o'  that? 

SIR  AND.     I  was  adored  once  too. 

SIR  To.  Let's  to  bed,  knight.  Thou  hadst  need 
send  for  more  money. 

SIR  AND.  If  I  cannot  recover  your  niece,  I  am  a 
foul  way  out. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  25 

SIR  To.  Send  for  money,  knight:  if  thou  hast 
her  not  i'  the  end,  call  me  cut. 

SIR  AND.  If  I  do  not,  never  trust  me,  take  it 
how  you  will. 

SIR  To.  Come,  come,  I'll  go  burn  some  sack ;  'tis 
too  late  to  go  to  bed  now.  Come,  knight;  come, 
knight.  (Exeunt) 

CURTAIN. 

PSYCHE. — 

Youth  and  Romance  walk  shyly  hand-in-hand, 
Adown  a  flowery  pathway  all  too  brief : 
Of  all  the  wondrous  lovers  Shakespeare  drew, 
Orlando  and  his  Rosalind  are  chief. 
A  wholesome,  whole-souled  love  is  that  he  pictures : 
And  to  it  still  turn  over-burdened  men, 
And  weary  women  find  in  it  refreshment ; 
"  The  whole  world  loves  a  lover  "  now,  as  then. 

(ORLANDO  and  ROSALIND:  "As  You  Like  It"  ACT 
3,  SCENE  2,  SCENE  4,  and  ACT  4,  SCENE  i.) 

(SCENE  I.     The  forest.) 
(Enter  ORLANDO,  with  a  paper.) 

ORL.— 

Hang  there,  my  verse,  in  witness  of  my  love ; 
And  thou,  thrice-crowned  queen  of  night,  survey 
With  thy  chaste  eye,  from  thy  pale  sphere  above, 

Thy  huntress'  name  that  my  full  life  doth  sway. 
O  Rosalind !  these  trees  shall  be  my  books, 

And  in  their  barks  my  thoughts  I'll  character, 
That  every  eye  which  in  this  forest  looks 

Shall  see  thy  virtue  witness'd  every  where. 
Run,  run,  Orlando ;  carve  on  every  tree 
The  fair,  the  chaste,  and  unexpressive  she. 


26  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

(Exit.) 

(Enter  ROSALIND  with  a  paper,  reading.) 

Ros.— 

From  the  east  to  western  Ind, 
No  jewel  is  like  Rosalind. 
Her  worth,  being  mounted  on  the  wind, 
Through  all  the  world  bears  Rosalind. 
All  the  pictures  fairest  lined 
Are  but  black  to  Rosalind. 
Let  no  face  be  kept  in  mind 
But  the  fair  of  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Look  here  what  I  found  on  a  palm-tree.  I 
was  never  so  be-rhymed  since  Pythagoras'  time,  that 
I  was  an  Irish  rat,  which  I  can  hardly  remember, 

CEL.    Trow  you  who  hath  done  this  ? 

Ros.     Is  it  a  man? 

CEL.  And  a  chain,  that  you  once  wore,  about  his 
neck.  Change  you  colour? 

Ros.    I  prithee,  who  ? 

CEL.  O  Lord,  Lord !  it  is  a  hard  matter  for 
friends  to  meet ;  but  mountains  may  be  removed 
with  earthquakes  and  so  encounter. 

Ros.     Nay,  but  who  is  it? 

CEL.    Is  it  possible  ? 

Ros.  Nay,  I  prithee  now  with  most  petitionary 
vehemence,  tell  me  who  it  is. 

CEL.  O  wonderful,  wonderful,  and  most  wonder- 
ful wonderful !  and  yet  again  wonderful,  and  after 
that,  out  of  all  hooping ! 

Ros.  Good  my  complexion !  dost  thou  think, 
though  I  am  caparisoned  like  a  man,  I  have  a  doub- 
let and  hose  in  my  disposition?  One  inch  of  delay 
more  is  a  South-sea  of  discovery;  I  prithee,  tell  me 
who  is  it  quickly,  and  speak  apace.  I  would  thou 
couldst  stammer,  that  thou  mightst  pour  this  con- 
cealed man  out  of  thy  mouth,  as  wine  comes  out  of 
a  narrow-mouthed  bottle,  either  too  much  at  once, 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  27 

or  none  at  all.  I  prithee,  take  the  cork  out  of  thy 
mouth  that  I  may  drink  thy  tidings.  Is  he  of  God's 
making  ?  What  manner  of  man  ?  Is  his  head  worth 
a  hat,  or  his  chin  worth  a  beard? 

CEL.    Nay,  he  hath  but  a  little  beard. 

Ros.  Why,  God  will  send  more,  if  the  man  will 
be  thankful :  let  me  stay  the  growth  of  his  beard,  if 
thou  delay  me  not  the  knowledge  of  his  chin. 

CEL.  It  is  young  Orlando,  that  tripped  up  the 
wrestler's  heels  and  your  heart  both  in  an  in- 
stant. 

Ros.  Nay,  but  the  devil  take  mocking!  speak 
sad  brow  and  true  maid. 

CEL.     I'  faith,  coz,  'tis  he. 

Ros.     Orlando  ? 

CEL.     Orlando. 

Ros.  Alas  the  day !  what  shall  I  do  with  my 
doublet  and  hose? — What  did  he  when  thou  sawest 
him?  What  said  he?  How  looked  he?  Wherein 
went  he?  What  makes  he  here?  Did  he  ask  for 
me?  Where  remains  he?  How  parted  he  with 
thee?  and  when  shalt  thou  see  him  again?  An- 
swer me  in  one  word. 

CEL.  You  must  borrow  me  Gargantua's  mouth 
first:  'tis  a  word  too  great  for  any  mouth  of  this 
age's  size.  To  say  ay  and  no  to  these  particulars 
is  more  than  to  answer  in  a  catechism. 

Ros.  But  doth  he  know  that  I  am  in  this  forest 
and  in  man's  apparel?  Looks  he  as  freshly  as  he 
did  the  day  he  wrestled? 

CEL.  It  is  as  easy  to  count  atomies  as  to  resolve 
the  propositions  of  a  lover;  but  a  taste  of  my 
finding  him,  and  relish  it  with  good  observance.  I 
found  him  under  a  tree,  like  a  dropped  acorn. 

Ros.  It  may  well  be  called  Jove's  tree,  when  it 
drops  forth  such  fruit. 

CEL.     Give  me  audience,  good  madam. 

Ros.    Proceed. 


28  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

CEL.  There  lay  he,  stretched  along,  like  a 
wounded  knight. 

Ros.  Though  it  be  pity  to  see  such  a  sight,  it 
well  becomes  the  ground. 

CEL.  Cry  '  holla '  to  thy  tongue,  I  prithee ;  it 
curvets  unseasonably.  He  was  furnished  like  a 
hunter. 

Ros.    O,  ominous !  he  comes  to  kill  my  heart. 

CEL.  I  would  sing  my  song  without  a  burden : 
thou  bringest  me  out  of  tune. 

Ros.  Do  you  not  know  I  am  a  woman  ?  when  I 
think,  I  must  speak.  Sweet,  say  on. 

CEL.  You  bring  me  out. — Soft!  comes  he  not 
here? 

(Enter  ORLANDO.) 

Ros.  (Aside  to  CELIA)  I  will  speak  to  him  like 
a  saucy  lackey,  and  under  that  habit  play  the 
knave  with  him. — Do  you  hear,  forester? 

ORL.     Very  well :  what  would  you  ? 

Ros.    I  pray  you,  what  is't  o'clock? 

ORL.  You  should  ask  me  what  time  o'  day : 
there's  no  clock  in  the  forest. 

Ros.  Then  there  is  no  true  lover  in  the  forest ; 
else  sighing  every  minute  and  groaning  every  hour 
would  detect  the  lazy  foot  of  Time  as  well  as  a  clock. 

ORL.  And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of  Time?  had 
not  that  been  as  proper? 

Ros.  By  no  means,  sir :  Time  travels  in  divers 
paces  wth  divers  persons.  I'll  tell  you  who  Time 
ambles  withal,  who  Time  trots  withal,  who  Time 
gallops  withal,  and  who  he  stands  still  withal. 

ORL.     I  prithee,  who  doth  he  trot  withal? 

Ros.  Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid 
between  the  contract  of  her  marriage  and  the  day 
it  is  solemnized :  if  the  interim  be  but  a  se'nnight, 
Time's  pace  is  so  hard  that  it  seems  the  length  of 
seven  year. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  29 

ORL.    Who  ambles  time  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  priest  that  lacks  Latin,  and  a  rich 
man  that  hath  not  the  gout;  for  the  one  sleeps 
easily  because  he  cannot  study,  and  the  other  lives 
merrily  because  he  feels  no  pain ;  the  one  lacking 
the  burden  of  lean  and  wasteful  learning,  the  other 
knowing  no  burden  of  heavy  tedious  penury :  these 
Time  ambles  withal. 

ORL.    Who  doth  he  gallop  withal? 

Ros.  With  a  thief  to  the  gallows ;  for  though  he 
go  as  softly  as  foot  can  fall,  he  thinks  himself  too 
soon  there. 

ORL.     Who  stays  it  still  withal? 

Ros.  With  lawyers  in  the  vacation ;  for  they 
sleep  between  term  and  term,  and  then  they  perceive 
not  how  Time  moves. 

ORL.    Where  dwell  you,  pretty  youth? 

Ros.  With  this  shepherdess,  my  sister ;  here  in 
the  skirts  of  the  forest,  like  fringe  upon  a  petti- 
coat. 

ORL.    Are  you  native  of  this  place? 

Ros.  As  the  cony  that  you  see  dwell  where  she 
is  kindled. 

ORL.  Your  accent  is  something  finer  than  you 
could  purchase  in  so  removed  a  dwelling. 

Ros.  I  have  been  told  so  of  many :  but  indeed 
an  old  religious  uncle  of  mine  taught  me  to  speak, 
who  was  in  his  youth  an  inland  man;  one  that 
knew  courtship  too  well,  for  there  he  fell  in  love. 
I  have  heard  him  read  many  lectures  against  it, 
and  I  thank  God  I  am  not  a  woman,  to  be  touched 
with  so  many  giddy  offences  as  he  hath  generally 
taxed  their  whole  sex  withal. 

ORL.  Can  you  remember  any  of  the  principal 
evils  that  he  laid  to  the  charge  of  women? 

Ros.  There  were  none  principal ;  they  were  all 
like  one  another  as  half-pence  are,  every  one  fault 
seeming  monstrous  till  his  fellow- fault  came  to 
match  it. 


30  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

ORL.     I  prithee,  recount  some  of  them. 

Ros.  No,  I  will  not  cast  away  my  physic  but  on 
those  that  are  sick.  There  is  a  man  haunts  the 
forest,  that  abuses  our  young  plants  with  carving 
Rosalind  on  their  barks ;  hangs  odes  upon  haw- 
thorns and  elegies  on  brambles,  all,  forsooth,  deify- 
ing the  name  of  Rosalind:  if  I  could  meet  that 
fancy-monger,  I  would  give  him  some  good  counsel, 
for  he  seems  to  have  the  quotidian  of  love  upon  him. 

ORL.  I  am  he  that  is  so  love-shaked :  I  pray  you, 
tell  me  your  remedy. 

Ros.  There  is  none  of  my  uncle's  marks  upon 
you :  he  taught  me  how  to  know  a  man  in  love ;  in 
which  cage  of  rushes  I  am  sure  you  are  not  pris- 
oner. 

ORL.    What  were  his  marks? 

Ros.  A  lean  cheek,  whch  you  have  not ;  a  blue 
eye  and  sunken,  which  you  have  not ;  an  unques- 
tionable spirit,  which  you  have  not ;  a  beard  neg- 
lected, which  you  have  not ;  but  I  pardon  you  for 
that,  for  simply  your  having  in  beard  is  a  younger 
brother's  revenue :  then  your  hose  should  be  ungar- 
tered,  your  bonnet  unbanded,  your  sleeve  unbut- 
toned, your  shoe  untied,  and  every  thing  about  you 
demonstrating  a  careless  desolation.  But  you  are 
no  such  man ;  you  are  rather  point-device  in  your 
accoutrements,  as  loving  yourself  than  seeming  the 
lover  of  any  other. 

ORL.  Faith  youth,  I  would  I  could  make  thee 
believe  I  love. 

Ros.  Me  believe  it !  you  may  as  soon  make  her 
that  you  love  believe  it ;  which,  I  warrant,  she  is 
apter  to  do  than  to  confess  she  does :  that  is  one  of 
the  points  in  the  which  women  still  give  the  lie  to 
their  consciences.  But,  in  good  sooth,  are  you  he 
t'hat  hangs  the  verses  on  the  trees,  wherein  Rosa- 
lind is  so  admired? 

ORL.  I  swear  to  thee,  youth,  by  the  white  hand 
of  Rosalind,  I  am  that  he,  that  unfortunate  he. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  31 

Ros.  But  are  you  so  much  in  love  as  your 
rhymes  speak? 

ORL.  Neither  rhyme  nor  reason  can  express  how 
much. 

Ros.  Love  is  merely  a  madness,  and,  I  tell  you, 
deserves  as  well  a  dark  house  and  a  whip  as  mad- 
men do ;  and  the  reason  why  they  are  not  so  pun- 
ished and  cured  is,  that  the  lunacy  is  so  ordinary 
that  the  whippers  are  in  love  too.  Yet  I  profess 
curing  it  by  counsel. 

ORL.     Did  you  ever  cure  any  so? 

Ros.  Yes,  one,  and  in  this  manner.  He  was  to 
imagine  me  his  love,  his  mistress ;  and  I  set  him 
every  day  to  woo  me :  at  which  time  would  I,  being 
but  a  moonish  youth,  grieve,  be  effeminate,  change- 
able, longing  and  liking;  proud,  fantastical,  apish, 
shallow,  inconstant,  full  of  tears,  full  of  smiles ; 
for  every  passion  something  and  for  no  passion  truly 
anything,  as  boys  and  women  are  for  the  most  part 
cattle  of  this  colour ;  would  now  like  him,  now 
loathe  him ;  then  entertain  him,  then  forswear 
him ;  now  weep  for  him,  then  spit  at  him, — that  I 
drave  my  suitor  from  his  mad  humour  of  love  to  a 
living  humour  of  madness ;  which  was,  to  forswear 
the  full  stream  of  the  world  and  to  live  in  a  nook 
merely  monastic.  And  thus  I  cured  him ;  and  this 
way  will  I  take  upon  me  to  wash  your  liver  as  clean 
as  a  sound  sheep's  heart,  that  there  shall  not  be  one 
spot  of  love  in't. 

ORL.     I  would  not  be  cured,  youth. 
Ros.    I  would  cure  you,  if  you  would  but  call  me 
Rosalind,  and  come  every  day  to  my  cote  and  woo 
me. 

ORL.  Now,  by  the  faith  of  my  love,  I  will :  tell 
me  where  it  is. 

Ros.  Go  with  me  to  it  and  I'll  show  it  you ;  and 
by  the  way  you  shall  tell  me  where  in  the  forest 
you  live.  Will  you  go? 


32  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

ORL.    With  all  my  heart,  good  youth. 
Ros.     Nay,  you  must  call  me  Rosalind — Come, 
sister,  will  you  go?    (Exeunt) 

(SCENE  2.     The  forest.) 
(Enter  ROSALIND  and  CELIA.) 

Ros.    Never  talk  to  me ;  I  will  weep. 

CEL.  Do,  I  prithee;  but  yet  have  the  grace  to 
consider  that  tears  do  not  become  a  man. 

Ros.     But  have  I  not  cause  to  weep? 

CEL.  As  good  cause  as  one  would  desire ;  there- 
fore weep. 

Ros.    His  very  hair  is  of  the  dissembling  colour. 

CEL.  Something  browner  than  Judas's :  marry, 
his  kisses  are  Judas's  own  children. 

Ros.    F  faith,  his  hair  is  of  a  good  colour. 

CEL.  An  excellent  colour:  your  chestnut  was 
ever  the  only  colour. 

Ros.  And  his  kissing  is  as  full  of  sanctity  as 
the  touch  of  holy  bread. 

CEL.  He  hath  bought  a  pair  of  cast  lips  of 
Diana :  a  nun  of  winter's  sisterhood  kisses  not  more 
religiously ;  the  very  ice  of  chastity  is  in  them. 

Ros.  But  why  did  he  swear  he  would  come  this 
morning,  and  comes  not? 

CEL.     Nay,  certainly,  there  is  no  truth  in  him. 

Ros.    Do  you  think  so? 

CEL.  Yes :  I  think  he  is  not  a  pick-purse  nor  a 
horse-stealer ;  but  for  his  verity  in  love,  I  do  think 
him  as  concave  as  a  covered  goblet  or  a  worm-eaten 
nut. 

Ros.     Not  true  in  love? 

CEL.    Yes,  when  he  is  in ;  but  I  think  he  is  not  in. 

Ros.  You  have  heard  him  swear  downright  he 
was. 

CEL.     '  Was  '  is  not  '  is  ' :  besides,  the  oath  of  a 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  33 

lover  is  no  stronger  than  the  word  of  a  tapster ; 
they  are  both  the  confirmer  of  false  reckonings. 
He  attends  here  in  the  forest  on  the  Duke  your 
father. 

Ros.  I  met  the  Duke  yesterday,  and  had  much 
question  with  him.  He  asked  me  of  what  parentage 
I  was :  I  told  him,  of  as  good  as  he ;  so  he  laughed 
and  let  me  go.  But  what  talk  we  of  fathers,  when 
there  is  such  a  man  as  Orlando? 

CEL.  O,  that's  a  brave  man!  he  writes  brave 
verses,  speaks  brave  words,  swears  brave  oaths  and 
breaks  them  bravely,  quite  traverse,  athwart  the 
heart  of  his  lover ;  as  a  puisny  tilter,  that  spurs  his 
horse  but  on  one  side,  breaks  his  staff  like  a  noble 
goose.  But  all's  brave  that  youth  mounts  and  folly 
guides. — Who  comes  here? 

(Enter  ORLANDO.) 

ORL.     Good  day  and  happiness,  dear  Rosalind ! 

Ros.  Why,  how  now,  Orlando !  where  have  you 
been  all  this  while?  You  a  lover!  An  you  serve 
me  such  another  trick,  never  come  in  my  sight  more. 

ORL.  My  fair  Rosalind,  I  come  within  an  hour 
of  my  promise. 

Ros.  Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love !  He  that 
will  divide  a  minute  into  a  thousand  parts,  and 
break  but  a  part  of  the  thousandth  part  of  a  minute 
in  the  affairs  of  love,  it  may  be  said  of  him  that 
Cupid  hath  clapped  him  o'  the  shoulder,  but  I'll 
warrant  him  heart-whole. 

ORL.     Pardon  me,  dear  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Nay,  an  you  be  so  tardy,  come  no  more  in 
my  sight :  I  had  as  lief  be  wooed  of  a  snail. 

ORL.     Of  a  snail? 

Ros.  Ay,  of  a  snail ;  for  though  he  comes  slowly, 
he  carries  his  house  on  his  head, — a  better  jointure, 
I  think,  than  you  make  a  woman :  besides,  he  brings 


34  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

his  destiny  with  him  ;  he  comes  armed  in  his  fortune, 
and  prevents  the  slander  of  his  wife. 

ORL.     My  Rosalind  is  virtuous. 

Ros.     And  I  am  your  Rosalind. 

CEL.  It  pleases  him  to  call  you  so ;  but  he  hath  a 
Rosalind  of  a  better  leer  than  you. 

Ros.  Come,  woo  me,  woo  me ;  for  now  I  am  in  a 
holiday  humour  and  like  enough  to  consent.  What 
would  you  say  to  me  now,  an  I  were  your  very  very 
Rosalind  ? 

ORL.    I  would  kiss  before  I  spoke. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  were  better  speak  first ;  and  when 
you  were  gravelled  for  lack  of  matter,  you  might 
take  occasion  to  kiss.  Very  good  orators,  when  they 
are  out,  they  will  spit;  and  for  lovers  lacking — 
God  warn  us ! — matter,  the  cleanliest  shift  is  to 
kiss. 

ORL.    How  if  the  kiss  be  denied? 

Ros.  Then  she  puts  you  to  entreaty,  and  there 
begins  new  matter. 

ORL.  Who  could  be  out,  being  before  his  beloved 
mistress  ? 

Ros.  Marry,  that  should  you,  if  I  were  your 
mistress,  or  I  should  think  my  honesty  ranker  than 
my  wit. 

ORL.    What,  of  my  suit? 

Ros.  Not  out  of  your  apparel,  and  yet  out  of 
your  suit.  Am  not  I  your  Rosalind? 

ORL.  I  take  some  joy  to  say  you  are,  because  I 
would  be  talking  of  her. 

Ros.  Well,  in  her  person  I  say  I  will  not  have 
you. 

ORL.     Then  in  mine  own  person  I  die. 

Ros.  No,  faith,  die  by  attorney.  The  poor  world 
is  almost  six  thousand  years  old,  and  in  all  this 
time  there  was  not  any  man  died  in  his  own  person, 
videlicet,  in  a  love-cause.  Troilus  had  his  brains 
dashed  out  with  a  Grecian  club;  yet  he  did  wh; 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  35 

he  could  to  die  before,  and  he  is  one  of  the  patterns 
of  love.  Leander,  he  would  have  lived  many  a  fair 
year,  though  Hero  had  turned  nun,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  a  hot  midsummer  night ;  for,  good  youth, 
he  went  but  forth  to  wash  him  in  the  Hellespont, 
and  being  taken  with  the  cramp  was  drowned :  and 
the  foolish  chroniclers  of  that  age  found  it  was 
'  Hero  of  Sestos.'  But  these  are  all  lies :  men  have 
died  from  time  to  time  and  worms  have  eaten  them, 
but  not  for  love. 

ORL.  I  would  not  have  my  right  Rosalind  of  this 
mind ;  for,  I  protest,  her  frown  might  kill  me. 

Ros.  By  this  hand,  it  will  not  kill  a  fly.  But 
come,  now  I  will  be  your  Rosalind  in  a  more  com- 
ing-on  disposition,  and  ask  me  what  you  will,  I  will 
grant  it. 

ORL.     Then  love  me,  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Yes,  faith,  will  I,  Fridays  and  Saturdays 
and  all. 

ORL.     And  wilt  thou  have  me? 

Ros.    Ay,  and  twenty  such. 

ORL.    What  sayest  thou  ? 

Ros.    Are  you  not  good? 

ORL.    I  hope  so. 

Ros.  Why  then,  can  one  desire  too  much  of  a 
good  thing? — Come,  sister,  you  shall  be  the  priest 
and  marry  us. — Give  me  your  hand,  Orlando. — 
What  do  you  say,  sister  ? 

ORL.     Pray  thee,  marry  us. 

CEL.     I  cannot  say  the  words. 

Ros.     You  must  begin,  *  Will  you,   Orlando — ' 

CEL.  Go  to. — Will  you,  Orlando,  have  to  v/ife 
this  Rosalind? 

ORL.     I  will. 

Ros.     Ay,  but  when? 

ORL.    Why  now ;  as  fast  as  she  can  marry  us. 

Ros.  Then  you  must  say,  *  I  take  thee,  Rosalind, 
for  wife.' 


36  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

ORL.    I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife. 

Ros.  I  might  ask  you  for  your  commission ;  but 
I  do  take  thee,  Orlando,  for  my  husband.  There's  a 
girl  goes  before  the  priest ;  and  certainly  a  woman's 
thought  runs  before  her  actions. 

ORL.     So  do  all  thoughts ;  they  are  winged. 

Ros.  Now  tell  me  how  long  you  would  have  her 
after  you  have  possessed  her. 

ORL.     For  ever  and  a  day. 

Ros.  Say  '  a  day/  without  the  '  ever/  No,  no, 
Orlando ;  men  are  April  when  they  woo,  December 
when  they  v/ed :  maids  are  May  when  they  are 
maids,  but  the  sky  changes  when  they  are  wives. 
I  will  be  more  jealous  of  thee  than  a  Barbary  cock- 
pigeon  over  his  hen,  more  clamorous  than  a  parrot 
against  rain,  more  new-fangled  than  an  ape,  more 
giddy  in  my  desires  than  a  monkey.  I  will  weep 
for  nothing,  like  Diana  in  the  fountain,  and  I  will 
do  that  when  you  are  disposed  to  be  merry ;  I  will 
laugh  like  a  hyen,  and  that  when  thou  art  inclined 
to  sleep. 

ORL.    But  will  my  Rosalind  do  so  ? 

Ros.    By  my  life,  she  will  do  as  I  do. 

ORL.    O,  but  she  is  wise. 

Ros.  Or  else  she  could  not  have  the  wit  to  do 
this :  the  wiser,  the  way  warder.  Make  the  doors 
upon  a  woman's  wit,  and  it  will  out  at  the  casement ; 
shut  that,  and  t'will  out  at  the  key-hole ;  stop  that, 
'twill  fly  with  the  smoke  out  at  the  chimney. 

ORL.  A  man  that  had  a  wife  with  such  a  wit,  he 
might  say,  '  Wit,  whither  wilt  ?  ' 

Ros.  You  shall  never  take  her  without  her 
answer,  unless  you  take  her  without  her  tongue.  O, 
that  woman  that  cannot  make  her  fault  her  hus- 
band's occasion,  let  her  never  nurse  her  child  her- 
self, for  she  will  breed  it  like  a  fool ! 

ORL.  For  these  two  hours,  Rosalind,  I  will  leave 
thee. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  37 

Ros.  Alas,  dear  love,  I  cannot  lack  thee  two 
hours ! 

ORL.  I  must  attend  the  Duke  at  dinner :  by  two 
o'clock  I  will  be  with  thee  again. 

Ros.  Ay,  go  your  ways,  go  your  ways ;  I  knew 
what  you  would  prove :  my  friends  told  me  as 
much,  and  I  thought  no  less.  That  flattering  tongue 
of  yours  won  me :  'tis  but  one  cast  away,  and  so, 
come,  death  ! — Two  o'clock  is  your  hour  ? 

ORL.    Ay,  sweet  Rosalind. 

Ros.  By  my  troth,  and  in  good  earnest,  and  so 
God  mend  me,  and  by  all  pretty  oaths  that  are  not 
dangerous,  if  you  break  one  jot  of  your  promise 
or  come  one  minute  behind  your  hour,  I  will  think 
you  the  most  pathetical  break-promise,  and  the 
most  hollow  lover,  and  the  most  unworthy  of  her 
you  call  Rosalind,  that  may  be  chosen  out  of  the 
gross  band  of  the  unfaithful :  therefore  beware  my 
censure  and  keep  your  promise. 

ORL.  With  no  less  religion  than  if  thou  wert 
indeed  my  Rosalind :  so  adieu. 

Ros.  Well,  Time  is  the  old  justice  that  examines 
all  such  offenders,  and  let  Time  try :  adieu. 

(Exit  ORLANDO.) 

CEL.  You  have  simply  misused  our  sex  in  your 
love-prate :  we  must  have  your  doublet  and  hose 
plucked  over  your  head,  and  show  the  world  what 
the  bird  hath  done  to  her  own  nest. 

Ros.  O  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  pretty  little  coz,  that 
thou  didst  know  how  many  fathom  deep  I  am  in 
love !  But  it  cannot  be  sounded :  my  affection  hath 
an  unknown  bottom,  like  the  bay  of  Portugal. 

CEL.  Or  rather,  bottomless ;  that  as  fast  as  you 
pour  affection  in,  it  runs  out. 

Ros.  No,  that  same  wicked  bastard  of  Venus 
that  was  begot  of  thought,  conceived  of  spleen,  and 


38  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

born  of  madness,  that  blind  rascally  boy  that  abuses 
every  one's  eyes  because  his  own  are  out,  let  him 
be  judge  how  deep  I  am  in  love.  I'll  tell  thee, 
Aliena,  I  cannot  be  out  of  the  sight  of  Orlando :  I'll 
go  find  a  shadow,  and  sigh  till  he  come. 
CEL.  And  I'll  sleep.  (Exeunt) 

CURTAIN. 

PSYCHE. — 

Close  on  Romance,  Enthusiasm  follows : 
The  youth  sets  out  to  carve  his  own  career.  * 

Three  centuries  ago  he  found  in  war-fare 
His  noblest  field :  a  fitting  picture  here 
Is  Harry  Hotspur :  even  as  he  woos 
He's  still  the  soldier — but  he  wins  his  Kate ! 
An  thus  the  Doer,  be  it  man  or  woman 
Finds  Love  an  ally  for  achievement  great. 

(The  Courting  of  Katharine  of  France:) 

(HENRY  5,  ACT  5,  SCENE  2.) 
(HENRY,  KATHARINE  and  ALICE.) 

K.  HEN.— 

Fair  Katharine,  and  most  fair, 

Will  you  vouchsafe  to  teach  a  soldier  terms 

Such  as  will  enter  at  a  lady's  ear 

And  plead  his  love-suit  to  her  gentle  heart? 

KATH.  Your  majesty  shall  mock  at  me ;  I  cannot 
speak  your  England. 

K.  HEN.  O  fair  Katharine,  if  you  will  love  me 
soundly  with  your  French  heart,  I  will  be  glad  to 
hear  you  confess  it  brokenly  with  your  English 
tongue.  Do  you  like  me,  Kate  ? 

KATH.  P.ardonnez-moi,  I  cannot  tell  vat  is  '  like 
me/ 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  39 

K.  HEN.  An  angel  is  like  you,  Kate,  and  you 
are  like  an  angel. 

KATH.  Que  dit-il?  que  je  suis  semblable  a  les 
anges  ? 

ALICE.  Oui,  vraiment,  sauf  votre  grace,  ainsi 
dit-il. 

K.  HEN.  I  said  so,  dear  Katharine;  and  I  must 
not  blush  to  affirm  it. 

KATH.  O  bon  Dieu !  les  langues  des  hommes  sont 
pleines  de  tromperies. 

K.  HEN.  What  says  she,  fair  one?  that  the 
tongues  of  men  are  full  of  deceits  ? 

ALICE.  Oui,  dat  de  tongues  of  de  mans  is  be  full 
of  deceits ;  dat  is  de  princess. 

K.  HEN.  The  princess  is  the  better  English- 
woman.— r  faith,  Kate,  my  wooing  is  fit  for  thy 
understanding.  I  am  glad  thou  canst  speak  no 
better  English;  for,  if  thou  couldst,  thou  wouldst 
find  me  such  a  plain  king  that  thou  wouldst  think 
I  had  sold  my  farm  to  buy  my  crown.  I  know  no 
ways  to  mince  it  in  love,  but  directly  to  say  '  I  love 
you : '  then  if  you  urge  me  farther  than  to  say 
'  Do  you  in  faith  ? '  I  wear  out  my  suit.  Give  me 
your  answer;  i'  faith,  and  so  clap  hands  and  a 
bargain.  How  say  you,  lady? 

KATH. — 

Sauf  votre  honneur,  me  understand  veil. 

K.  HEN.  Marry,  if  you  would  put  me  to  verses 
or  to  dance  for  your  sake,  Kate,  why  you  undid 
me ;  for  the  one,  I  have  neither  words  nor  measure, 
and  for  the  other,  I  have  no  strength  in  measure, 
yet  a  reasonable  measure  in  strength.  If  I  could 
win  a  lady  at  leap-frog,  or  by  vaulting  into  my 
saddle  with  my  armour  on  my  back,  under  the  cor- 
rection of  bragging  be  it  spoken,  I  should  quickly 
leap  into  a  wife.  Or  if  I  might  buffet  for  my  love, 
or  bound  my  horse  for  her  favours,  I  could  lay  on 
like  a  butcher  and  sit  like  a  Jack-an-apes,  never  off. 


40  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

But,  before  God,  Kate,  I  cannot  look  greenly  nor 
gasp  out  my  eloquence,  nor  I  have  no  cunning  in 
protestation ;  only  downright  oaths,  which  I  never 
use  till  urged,  nor  never  break  for  urging.  If  thou 
canst  love  a  fellow  of  this  temper,  Kate,  whose  face 
is  not  worth  sun-burning,  that  never  looks  in  his 
glass  for  love  of  anything  he  sees  there,  let  thine 
eye  be  thy  cook.  I  speak  to  thee  plain  soldier:  if 
thou  canst  love  me  for  this,  take  me ;  if  not,  to  say 
to  thee  that  I  shall  die,  is  true;  but  for  thy  love, 
by  the  Lord,  no;  yet  I  love  thee  too.  And  while 
thou  livest,  dear  Kate,  take  a  fellow  of  plain  and 
uncoined  constancy,  for  he  perforce  must  do  thee 
right,  because  he  hath  not  the  gift  to  woo  in  other 
places ;  for  these  fellows  of  infinite  tongue,  that 
can  rhyme  themselves  into  ladies'  favours,  they 
do  always  reason  themselves  out  again.  What !  a 
speaker  is  but  a  prater,  a  rhyme  is  but  a  ballad. 
A  good  leg  will  fall,  a  straight  back  will  stoop,  a 
black  beard  will  turn  white,  a  curled  pate  will  grow 
bald,  a  fair  face  will  wither",  a  full  eye  will  wax 
hollow ;  but  a  good  heart,  Kate,  is  the  sun  and  the 
moon, — or,  rather,  the  sun,  and  not  the  moon,  for 
it  shines  bright  and  never  changes,  but  keeps  his 
course  truly.  If  thou  would  have  such  a  one,  take 
me;  and  take  me,  take  a  soldier;  take  a  soldier, 
take  a  king.  And  what  sayest  thou  then  to  my 
love  ?  speak,  my  fair,  and  fairly,  I  pray  thee. 

KATH.  Is  it  possibe  dat  I  sould  love  de  enemy 
of  France? 

K.  HEN.  No,  it  is  not  possible  you  should  love 
the  enemy  of  France,  <Kate ;  but  in  loving  me  you 
should  love  the  friend  off  France,  for  I  love  France 
so  well  that  I  will  not  part  with  a  village  of  it ;  I 
will  have  it  all  mine:  and,  Kate,  when  France  is 
mine  and  I  am  yours,  then  yours  is  France  and  you 
are  mine. 

KATH.    I  cannot  tell  vat  is  dat. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  41 

K.  HEN.  No,  Kate  ?  I  will  tell  thee  in  French : 
which  I  am  sure  will  hang  upon  my  tongue  like  a 
new-married  wife  about  her  husband's  neck,  hardly 
to  be  shook  off.  Je  quand  sur  le  possession  de 
France,  et  quand  vous  avez  le  possession  de  moi 
— let  me  see,  what  then?  Saint  Denis  be  my 
speed ! — done  votre  est  France  et  vous  etes  mienne. 
It  is  as  easy  for  me,  Kate,  to  conquer  the  kingdom 
as  to  speak  so  much  more  French ;  I  shall  never 
move  thee  in  French,  unless  it  be  to  laugh  at  me. 

KATH.  Sauf  votre  honneur,  le  Frangois  jue  vous 
parlez,  il  est  meilleur  que  1'Anglois  lequel  je  parle. 

K.  HEN.  No,  faith,  is  't  'not,  Kate ;  but  thy 
speaking  of  my  tongue,  and  I  thine,  most  truly- 
falsely,  must  needs  be  granted  to  be  much  at  one. 
But,  Kate,  dost  thou  understand  thus  much  English, 
canst  thou  love  me? 

KATH.    I  cannot  tell. 

K.  HEN.  Can  any  of  your  neighbours  tell,  Kate? 
I'll  ask  them.  Come,  I  know  thou  lovest  'me ;  and 
at  night,  when  you  come  into  your  closet,  you'll 
question  this  gentlewoman  about  me ;  and  I  know, 
Kate,  you  will  to  her  dispraise  those  parts  in  me 
that  you  love  with  your  heart :  but,  good  Kate, 
mock  me  mercifully ;  the  rather,  gentle  princess, 
because  I  love  thee  cruelly.  If  ever  thou  beest 
mine,  Kate,  as  I  have  a  saving  faith  within  me 
tells  me  thou  shalt,  I  get  thee  with  scambling,  and 
thou  must  therefore  needs  prove  a  good  soldier- 
breeder.  Shall  not  thou  and  I,  between  Saint 
Denis  and  Saint  George,  compound  a  boy,  half 
French,  half  English,  that  shall  go  to  Constanti- 
nople and  take  the  Turk  by  the  beard?  shall  we 
not?  what  sayest  thou,  my  fair  flower-de-luce ? 

KATH.     I  do  not  know  dat. 

K.  HEN.  No;  'tis  hereafter  to  know,  but  now 
to  promise.  Do  but  now  promise,  Kate,  you  will 
endeavour  for  your  French  part  of  such  a  boy :  and 


42  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

for  my  English  moiety  take  the  word  of  a  king 
and  a  bachelor.  How  answer  you,  la  plus  belle 
Katharine  du  monde;  mon  tres  cher  et  devin 
deesse  ? 

KATH.  Your  majestee  ave  fausse  French  enough 
to  deceive  de  most  sage  demoiselle  dat  is  en 
France. 

K.  HEN.  Now,  fie  upon  my  false  French !  By 
mine  honour,  in  true  English,  I  love  thee,  Kate; 
by  which  honour  I  dare  not  swear  thou  lovest  me, 
yet  my  blood  begins  to  flatter  me  that  thou  dost, 
notwithstanding  the  poor  and  untempering  effect 
of  my  visage.  Now,  beshrew  my  father's  ambition ! 
he  was  thinking  of  civil  wars  when  he  got  me ; 
therefore  was  I  created  with  a  stubborn  outside, 
with  an  aspect  of  iron,  that,  when  I  come  to  woo 
ladies,  I  fright  them.  But,  in  faith,  Kate,  the  elder 
I  wax,  the  better  I  shall  appear;  my  comfort  is 
that  old  age,  that  ill  layer  up  of  beauty,  can  do  no 
more  spoil  upon  my  face.  Thou  hast  me,  if  thou 
hast  me,  at  the  worst ;  and  thou  shalt  wear  me,  if 
thou  wear  me,  better  and  better ;  and  therefore  tell 
me,  most  fair  Katharine,  will  you  have  me?  Put 
off  your  maiden  blushes ;  avouch  the  thoughts  of 
your  heart  with  the  looks  of  an  empress ;  take  me 
by  the  hand,  and  say,  '  Harry  of  England,  I  am 
thine : '  which  word  thou  shalt  no  sooner  bless  mine 
ear  withal,  but  I  will  tell  thee  aloud,  '  England  is 
thine,  Ireland  is  thine,  France  is  thine,  and  Henry 
Plantagenet  is  thine ; '  who,  though  I  speak  it  before 
his  face,  if  he  be  not  fellow  with  the  best  king,  thou 
shalt  find  the  best  king  of  good  fellows.  Come, 
your  answer  in  broken  music,  for  thy  voice  is  music 
and  thy  English  broken;  therefore,  queen  of  all, 
Katharine,  break  thy  mind  to  me  in  broken  Eng- 
lish :  wilt  thou  have  me  ? 

KATH.     Dat  is  as  it  sail  please  de  roi  mon  pere. 

K.  HEN.  Nay,  it  will  please  him  well,  Kate;  it 
shall  please  him,  Kate. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  43 

KATH.    Den  it  sail  also  content  me. 

K.  HEN.  Upon  that  I  kiss  your  hand,  and  I  call 
you  my  queen. 

KATH.  Laissez,  mon  seigneur,  laissez,  laissez ! 
ma  foi,  je  ne  veux  point  que  vous  abaissiez  votre 
grandeur  en  baisant  la  main  d'une  de  votre  seign- 
eur ie  indigne  serviteur ;  ercusez-moi,  je  vous  sup- 
plie,  mon  tres-puissant  seigneur. 

K.  HEN.    Then  I  will  kiss  your  lips,  Kate. 

KATH.  Les  dames  et  demoiselles  pour  etre 
baisees  devant  leur  noces,  il  n'est  pas  la  coutume 
de  France. 

K.  HEN.  Madame  my  interpreter,  what  says 
she? 

ALICE.  Dat  it  is  not  be  de  fashion  pour  les  ladies 
of  France, — I  cannot  tell  vat  is  baiser  en  Anglish. 

K.  HEN.    To  kiss. 

ALICE.     Your  majesty  entendre  bettre  que  moi. 

K.  HEN.  It  is  not  a  fashion  for  the  maids  in 
France  to  kiss  before  they  are  married,  would  she 
say? 

ALICE.    Oui,  vraiment. 

K.  HEN.  O  Kate,  nice  customs  courtesy  to  great 
kings.  Dear  Kate,  you  and  I  cannot  be  confined 
within  the  weak  list  of  a  country's  fashion.  We 
are  the  makers  of  manners,  Kate,  and  the  liberty 
that  follows  our  places  stops  the  mouth  of  all  find- 
faults, — as  I  will  do  yours,  for  upholding  the  nice 
fashion  of  your  country  in  denying  me  a  kiss : 
therefore,  patiently  and  yielding.  (Kissing  her) 
You  have  witchcraft  in  your  lips,  Kate ;  there  is 
more  eloquence  in  a  sugar  touch  of  them  than  in 
the  tongues  of  the  French  council,  and  they  should 
sooner  persuade  Harry  of  England  than  a  general 
petition  of  monarchs.  Here  comes  your  mother. 

(Enter  the  FRENCH  QUEEN,  MOTHER.) 

Q.  ISA.  God  save  your  majesty !  my  royal  cousin, 
teach  you  our  princess  English? 


44  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

K.  HEN.    I  would  have  her  learn,  my  fair  cousin, 
how  perfectly  I  love  her ;  and  that  is  good  English. 
I  pray  you  then,  in  love  and  dear  alliance, 
And  thereupon  give  me  your  daughter. 

Q.  ISA.— 

God,  the  best  maker  of  all  marriages, 
Combine  your  hearts  in  one,  your  realms  in  one! 
As  man  and  wife,  being  two,  are  one  in  love, 
So  be  there  'twixt  your  kingdoms  such  a  spousal, 
That  never  may  ill  office,  or  fell  jealousy, 
Which  troubles  oft  the  bed  of  blessed  marriage. 
Thrust  in  between  the  paction  of  these  kingdoms, 
To  make  divorce  of  their  incorporate  league ; 
That  English  may  as  French,  French  Englishmen, 
Receive  each  other !     God  speak  this  Amen ! 

CURTAIN. 

ALL.    Amen ! 

PSYCHE. — 

The  bravest  warrior  may  meet  a  stronger  foe 
And  creep,  disheartened,  from  the  well-fought  field : 
The  rose  of  love  may  lose  its  scent  and  glow, 
And  faith,  out-worn,  may  cease  the  soul  to  shield 
Thus  grows  the  Cynic  in  the  heart  of  man ; 
The  flood-tide  ebbs,  and  leaves  a  stranded  soul. 
Yet  Benedict,  the  Prince  of  Cynics,  found 
A  woman's  love  to  guide  him  from  this  shoal. 

(BEATRICE    and    BENEDICT:    "Much    Ado    About 
Nothing/') 

(BENEDICT,  BEATRICE,   HERO,   CLAUDIO,  LEONATO, 
DON  PEDRO.) 

BENE.     What,  my  dear  Lady  Disdain !  are  you 
yet  living? 

BEAT.    Is  it  possible  disdain  should  die  while  she 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  45 

hath  such  meet  food  to  feed  it  as  Signior  Benedick  ? 
Courtesy  itself  must  convert  to  disdain,  if  you  come 
in  her  presence. 

BENE.  Then  is  courtesy  a  turncoat.  But  it  is 
certain  I  am  loved  of  all  ladies,  only  you  excepted : 
and  I  would  I  could  find  in  my  heart  that  I  had  not 
a  hard  heart ;  for,  truly,  I  love  none. 

BEAT.  A  dear  happiness  to  women :  they  would 
else  have  been  troubled  with  a  pernicious  suitor.  I 
thank  God  and  my  cold  blood,  I  am  of  your  humour 
for  that :  I  had  rather  hear  my  dog  bark  at  a  crow. 

BENE.  God  keep  your  ladyship  still  in  that  mind ! 
so  some  gentleman  or  other  shall  'scape  a  predesti- 
nate scratched  face. 

BEAT.  Scratching  could  not  make  it  worse,  an 
'twere  such  a  face  as  yours  were. 

BENE.    Well,  you  are  a  rare  parrot-teacher. 

BEAT.  A  bird  of  my  tongue  is  better  than  a  beast 
of  yours. 

BENE.  I  would  my  horse  had  the  speed  of  your 
tongue,  and  so  good  a  continuer.  But  keep  your 
way,  i'  God's  name;  I  have  done. 

BEAT.  You  always  end  with  a  jade's  trick :  I 
know  you  of  old. 

(Exeunt  all  save  BENEDICT  and  CLAUDIO.) 

CLAUD.  Benedict,  didst  thou  note  the  daughter  of 
Signior  Leonato? 

BENE.  Why,  i'  faith,  methinks  she's  too  low  for 
a  high  praise,  too  brown  for  a  fair  praise,  and  too 
little  for  a  great  praise :  only  this  commendation 
I  can  afford  her,  that  were  she  other  than  she  is, 
she  were  unhandsome ;  and  being  no  other  but  as 
she  is,  I  do  not  like  her. 

CLAUD.  In  mine  eye  she  is  the  sweetest  lady  that 
ever  I  looked  on. 

BENE.     I  can  see  yet  without  spectacles,  and  I 


46  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

see  no  such  matter :  there's  her  cousin,  an  she  were 
not  possessed  with  a  fury,  exceeds  her  as  much  in 
beauty  as  the  first  of  May  doth  the  last  of  Decem- 
ber. But  I  hope  you  have  no  intent  to  turn  hus- 
band, have  you? 

CLAUD.  I  would  scarce  trust  myself,  though  I 
had  sworn  the  contrary,  if  Hero  would  be  my  wife. 

BENE.  Is't  come  to  this  ?  In  faith,  hath  not  the 
world  one  man  but  he  will  wear  his  cap  with  suspi- 
cion? Shall  I  never  see  a  bachelor  of  threescore 
again?  Go  to,  i'  faith;  an  thou  wilt  needs  thrust 
thy  neck  into  a  yoke,  wear  the  print  of  it,  and  sigh 
away  Sundays.  Look;  Don  Pedro  is  returned  to 
seek  you. 

D.  PEDRO.  Thou  wast  ever  an  obstinate  heretic 
in  the  despite  of  beauty. 

CLAUD.  And  never  could  maintain  his  part  but 
in  the  force  of  his  will. 

BENE.  That  a  woman  conceived  me,  I  thank  her ; 
that  she  brought  me  up,  I  likewise  give  her  most 
humble  thanks:  but  that  I  will  have  a  recheat 
winded  in  my  forehead,  or  hang  my  bugle  in  an 
invisible  baldrick,  all  women  shall  pardon  me. 
Because  I  will  not  do  them  the  wrong  to  mistrust 
any,  .1  will  do  myself  the  right  to  trust  none ;  and 
the  fine  is,  for  the  which  I  may  go  the  finer,  I  will 
live  a  bachelor. 

D.  PEDRO.  I  shall  see  thee,  ere  I  die,  look  pale 
with  love. 

BENE.  With  anger,  with  sickness,  or  with  hunger, 
my  lord,  not  with  love :  prove  that  ever  I  -lose  more 
blood  with  love  than  I  will  get  again  with  drinking, 
pick  out  mine  eyes  with  a  ballad-maker's  pen,  and 
hang  me  up  for  the  sign  of  blind  Cupid. 

D.  PEDRO.  Well,  if  ever  thou  dost  fall  from  this 
faith,  thou  wilt  prove  a  notable  argument. 

BENE.  If  I  do,  hang  me  in  a  bottle  like  a  cat,  and 
shoot  at  me ;  and  he  that  hits  me,  let  him  be  clapped 
on  the  shoulder  and  called  Adam. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  47 

D.  PEDRO. — 

Well,  as  time  shall  try : 

*  In  time  the  savage  bull  doth  bear  the  yoke.' 

BENE.  The  savage  bull  may,  but  if  ever  the 
sensible  Benedick  bear  it,  pluck  off  the  bull's  horns, 
and  set  them  in  my  forehead ;  and  let  me  be  vilely 
painted ;  and  in  such  great  letters  as  they  write 
'  Here  is  good  horse  to  hire/  let  them  signify  under 
my  sign  '  Here  you  may  see  Benedick  the  married 
man/ 

SCENE  2. 

(SCENE  I.     A  hall  in  LEONATO'S  house.} 
{Enter  LEONATO,  HERO,  BEATRICE,  and  others.} 

LEON.    Was  not  Count  John  here  at  supper? 

HERO.    I  saw  him  not. 

BEAT.  How  tartly  that  gentleman  looks !  I  never 
can  see  him  but  I  am  heart-burned  an  hour  after. 

HERO.    He  is  of  a  very  melancholy  disposition. 

BEAT.  He  were  an  excellent  man  that  were  made 
just  in  the  midway  between  him  and  Benedick :  the 
one  is  too  like  an  image  and  says  nothing,  and  the 
other  too  like  my  lady's  eldest  son,  evermore  tat- 
tling. 

LEON.  Then  half  Signior  Benedict's  tongue  in 
Count  John's  mouth,  and  half  Count  John's  melan- 
choly in  Signior  Benedict's  face 

BEAT.  With  a  good  leg  and  a  good  foot,  uncle, 
and  money  enough  in  his  purse,  such  a  man  would 
win  any  woman  in  the  world,  if  a'  could  get  her 
good  will. 

LEON.  By  my  troth,  niece,  thou  wilt  never  get 
thee  a  husband,  if  thou  be  so  shrewd  of  thy  tongue. 

BEAT.  Just,  if  he  send  me  no  husband;  for  the 
which  I  am  at  him  upon  my  knees  every  morning 


48  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

and  evening.  Lord !  I  could  not  endure  a  husband 
with  a  beard  on  his  face ! 

LEON.  You  may  light  on  a  husband  that  hath  no 
beard. 

BEAT.  What  should  I  do  with  him?  dress  him 
in  my  apparel,  and  make  him  my  waiting-gentle- 
woman ?  He  that  hath  a  beard  is  more  than  a  youth  ; 
and  he  that  hath  no  beard  is  less  than  a  man :  and 
he  that  is  more  than  a  youth,  is  not  for  me ;  and  he 
that  is  less  than  a  man,  I  am  not  for  him :  therefore 
I  will  even  take  sixpence  in  earnest  of  the  bear- 
ward,  and  lead  his  apes  into  hell. 

LEON.    Well,  then,  go  you  into  hell  ? 

BEAT.  No,  but  to  the  gate;  and  here  will  the 
devil  meet  me,  with  horns  on  his  head,  and  say, 
'  Get  you  to  heaven,  Beatrice,  get  you  to  heaven ; 
here's  no  place  for  you  maids : '  so  deliver  I  up  my 
apes,  and  away  to  Saint  Peter  for  the  heavens ;  he 
shows  me  where  the  bachelors  sit,  and  there  live  we 
as  merry  as  the  day  is  long. 

ANT.  (To  HERO)  Well,  niece,  I  trust  you  will 
be  ruled  by  your  father. 

BEAT.  Yes,  faith ;  it  is  my  cousin's  duty  to  make 
courtesy,  and  say,  *  Father,  as  it  please  you.'  But 
yet  for  all  that,  cousin,  let  him  be  a  handsome  fel- 
low, or  else  make  another  courtesy,  and  say, 
'  Father,  as  it  please  me.' 

LEON.  Well,  niece,  I  hope  to  see  you  one  day 
fitted  with  a  husband. 

BEAT.  Not  till  God  make  men  of  some  other 
metal  than  earth.  Would  it  not  grieve  a  woman  to 
be  overmastered  with  a  piece  of  valiant  dust?  to 
make  an  account  of  her  life  to  a  clod  of  wayward 
marl  ?  No,  uncle,  I'll  none ;  Adam's  sons  are  my 
brethren ;  and,  truly,  I  hold  it  a  sin  to  match  in  my 
kindred. 

LEON.  Daughter,  remember  what  I  told  you :  if 
the  prince  do  solicit  you  in  that  kind,  you  know 
your  answer. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  49 

BEAT.  The  fault  will  be  in  the  music,  cousin,  if 
you  be  not  wooed  in  good  time :  if  the  prince  be  too 
important,  tell  him  there  is  measure  in  everything, 
and  so  dance  out  the  answer.  For,  hear  me,  Hero : 
wooing,  wedding,  and  repenting  is  as  a  Scotch  jig, 
a  measure,  and  a  cinque  pace :  the  first  suit  is  hot 
and  hasty,  like  a  Scotch  jig,  and  full  as  fantastical; 
the  wedding,  mannerly-modest,  as  a  measure,  full  of 
state  and  ancientry:  and  then  comes  repentance, 
and,  with  his  bad  legs,  falls  into  the  cinque  pace 
faster  and  faster,  till  he  sink  into  his  grave. 

LEON.     Cousin,  you  apprehend  passing  shrewdly. 

BEAT.  I  have  a  good  eye,  uncle ;  I  can  see  a 
church  by  daylight. 

LEON.  The  revellers  are  entering,  brother :  make 
good  room.  (All  put  on  their  masks) 

(A  minuet  is  danced.) 

BEAT.    Will  you  not  tell  me  who  told  you  so  ? 

BENE.    No,  you  shall  pardon  nic. 

BEAT.     Nor  will  you  not  tell  me  who  you  are? 

BENE.    Not  now. 

BEAT.  That  I  was  disdainful,  and  that  I  had  my 
good  wit  out  of  the  *  Hundred  Merry  Tales  ' : — 
well,  this  was  Signior  Benedick  that  said  so. 

BENE.     What's  he? 

BEAT.     I  am  sure  you  know  him  well  enough. 

BENE.     Not  I,  believe  me. 

BEAT.    Did  he  never  make  you  laugh? 

BENE.    I  pray  you,  what  is  he? 

BEAT.  Why,  he  is  the  prince's  jester :  a  very  dull 
fool ;  only  his  gift  is  in  devising  impossible  slanders. 
None  but  libertines  delight  in  him;  and  the  com- 
mendation is  not  in  his  wit,  but  in  his  villainy ;  for 
he  both  pleases  men  and  angers  them,  and  then  they 
laugh  at  him  and  beat  him.  I  am  sure  he  is  in  the 
fleet :  I  would  he  had  boarded  me. 


So  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

BENE.  When  I  know  the  gentleman,  I'll  tell  him 
what  you  say. 

BEAT.  Do,  do:  he'll  but  break  a  comparison  or 
two  on  me ;  which,  peradventure  not  marked  or  not 
laughed  at,  strikes  him  into  melancholy ;  and  then 
there's  a  partridge  wing  saved,  for  the  fool  will  eat 
no  supper  that  night.  (Music)  We  must  follow  the 
leaders. 

BENE.    In  every  good  thing. 

BEAT.  Nay,  if  they  lead  to  any  ill,  I  will  leave 
them  at  the  next  turning.  (BEATRICE  goes) 

BENE.     Count  Claudio? 

CLAUD.    Yea,  the  same. 

BENE.     Come,  will  you  go  with  me? 

CLAUD.    Whither  ? 

BENE.  Even  to  the  next  willow,  about  your  own 
business,  county.  What  fashion  will  you  wear  the 
garland  of  ?  about  your  neck,  like  an  usurer's  chain  ? 
or  under  your  arm,  like  a  lieutenant's  scarf?  You 
must  wear  it  one  way,  for  the  prince  hath  got  your 
Hero. 

CLAUD.    I  wish  him  joy  of  her. 

BENE.  Why,  that's  spoken  like  an  honest  drovier ; 
so  they  sell  bullocks.  But  did  you  think  the  prince 
would  have  served  you  thus? 

CLAUD.    I  pray  you,  leave  me. 

BENE.  Ho!  now  you  strike  like  the  blind  man: 
'twas  the  boy  that  stole  your  meat,  and  you'll  beat 
the  post. 

CLAUD.    If  it  will  not  be,  I'll  leave  you.     (Exit) 

BENE.  Alas,  poor  hurt  fowl !  now  will  he  creep 
into  sedges.  But  that  my  Lady  Beatrice  should 
know  me,  and  not  know  me !  The  prince's  fool ! 
Ha?  It  may  be  I  go  under  that  title  because  I  am 
merry.  Yes,  but  so  I  am  apt  to  do  myself  wrong. 
I  am  not  so  reputed:  it  is  the  base,  though  bitter, 
disposition  of  Beatrice  that  puts  the  world  into  her 
person,  and  so  gives  me  out.  Well,  I'll  be  revenged 
as  I  may. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  51 

(Enter  DON  PEDRO.) 

D.  PEDRO.  The  Lady  Beatrice  hath  a  quarrel  to 
you :  the  gentleman  that  danced  with  her  told  her 
she  is  much  wronged  by  you. 

BENE.  O,  she  misused  me  past  the  endurance  of 
a  block !  an  oak  but  with  one  green  leaf  on  it  would 
have  answered  her ;  my  very  visor  began  to  assume 
life  and  scold  with  her.  She  told  me,  not  thinking 
I  had  been  myself,  that  I  was  the  prince's  jester, 
that  I  was  duller  than  a  great  thaw ;  huddling  jest 
upon  jest  with  such  impossible  conveyance  upon 
me  that  I  stood  like  a  man  at  a  mark,  with  a  whole 
army  shooting  at  me.  She  speaks  poniards,  and 
every  word  stabs :  if  her  breath  were  as  terrible  as 
her  terminations,  there  were  no  living  near  her ;  she 
would  infect  to  the  north  star.  I  would  not  marry 
her,  though  she  were  endowed  with  all  that  Adam 
had  left  him  before  he  transgressed :  she  would  have 
made  Hercules  have  turned  spit,  yea,  and  have  cleft 
his  club  to  make  the  fire  too.  Come,  talk  not  of 
her:  you  shall  find  her  the  infernal  Ate  in  good 
apparel.  I  would  to  God  some  scholar  would  con- 
jure her ;  for  certainly,  while  she  is  here,  a  man  may 
live  as  quiet  in  hell  as  in  a  sanctuary ;  and  people 
sin  upon  purpose,  because  they  would  go  thither: 
so,  indeed,  all  disquiet,  horror,  and  perturbation 
follows  her. 

D.  PEDRO.    Look,  here  she  comes. 

(Re-enter  CLAUDIO,  BEATRICE,  HERO,  and  LEONATO.) 

BENE.  O  God,  sir,  here's  a  dish  I  love  not :  I 
cannot  endure  my  Lady  Tongue.  (Exit) 

D.  PEDRO.  Come,  lady,  come ;  you  have  lost  the 
heart  of  Signior  Benedict. 

BEAT.  Indeed,  my  lord,  he  lent  it  me  awhile; 
and  I  gave  him  use  for  it,  a  double  heart  for  his 


52  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

single  one :  marry,  once  before  he  won  it  of  me 
with  false  dice,  therefore  your  Grace  may  well  say 
I  have  lost  it. 

D.  PEDRO.  In  faith,  lady,  you  have  a  merry 
heart. 

BEAT.  Yea,  my  lord;  I  thank  it  poor  fool,  it 
keeps  on  the  windy  side  of  care.  My  cousin  tells 
him  in  his  ear  that  she  is  in  his  heart. 

CLAUD.    And  so  she  doth,  cousin. 

BEAT.  Good  Lord,  for  alliance !  Thus  goes 
everyone  to  the  world  but  I,  and  I  am  sun-burnt ; 
I  may  sit  in  a  corner  and  cry  heigh-ho  for  a  hus- 
band! 

D.  PEDRO.    Lady  Beatrice,  I  will  get  you  one. 

BEAT.  I  would  rather  have  one  of  your  father's 
getting.  Hath  your  Grace  ne'er  a  brother  like  you? 
Your  father  got  excellent  husbands,  if  a  maid  could 
come  by  them. 

D.  PEDRO.    Will  you  have  me,  lady  ? 

BEAT.  No,  my  lord,  unless  I  might  have  another 
for  working-days :  your  Grace  is  too  costly  to  wear 
every  day.  But,  I  beseech  your  Grace,  pardon  me : 
I  was  born  to  speak  all  mirth  and  no  matter. 

D.  PEDRO.  Your  silence  most  offends  me,  and  to 
be  merry  best  becomes  you ;  for,  out  of  question, 
you  were  born  in  a  merry  hour. 

BEAT.  No,  sure,  my  lord,  my  mother  cried ;  but 
then  there  was  a  star  danced,  and  under  that  was  I 
born. — Cousins,  God  give  you  joy ! 

LEON.  Niece,  will  you  look  to  those  things  I  told 
you  of  ? 

BEAT.  I  cry  you  mercy,  uncle. — By  your  Grace's 
pardon.  (Exit) 

D.  PEDRO.    By  my  troth,  a  pleasant-spirited  lady. 

LEON.  There's  little  of  the  melancholy  element 
in  her,  my  lord:  she  is  never  sad  but  when  she 
sleeps,  and  not  ever  sad  then;  for  I  have  heard 
my  daughter  say,  she  hath  often  dreamed  of  unhap- 
piness,  and  waked  herself  with  laughing. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  53 

D.  PEDRO.  She  cannot  endure  to  hear  tell  of  a 
husband. 

LEON.  O,  by  no  means  :  she  mocks  all  her  wooers 
out  of  suit. 

D.  PEDRO.  She  were  an  excellent  wife  for 
Benedick. 

LEON.  O  Lord !  my  lord,  if  they  were  but  a  week 
married,  they  would  talk  themselves  mad. 

D.  PEDRO.  I  warrant  thee,  the  time  shall  not  go 
dully  by  us.  I  will  undertake  one  of  Hercules' 
labours ;  which  is,  to  bring  Signior  Benedick  and 
the  Lady  Beatrice  into  a  mountain  of  affection  the 
one  with  the  other.  I  would  fain  have  it  a  match  ; 
and  I  doubt  not  but  to  fashion  it,  if  you  three  will 
but  minister  such  assistance  as  I  shall  give  you 
direction. 

LEON.  My  lord,  I  am  for  you,  though  it  cost  me 
ten  nights'  watchings. 

CLAUD.     And  I,  my  lord. 

D.  PEDRO.     And  you  too,  gentle  Hero? 

HERO.  I  will  do  any  modest  office,  my  lord,  to 
help  my  cousin  to  a  good  husband. 

D.  PEDRO.  And  Benedick  is  not  the  unhopefullest 
husband  that  I  know.  Thus  far  can  I  praise  him : 
he  is  of  a  noble  strain,  of  approved  valour,  and 
confirmed  honesty.  I  will  teach  you  how  to  humour 
your  cousin,  that  she  shall  fall  in  love  with  Bene- 
dick ;  and  I,  with  your  two  helps,  will  so  practise 
on  Benedick,  that,  in  despite  of  his  quick  wit  and 
his  queasy  stomach,  he  shall  fall  in  love  with  Bea- 
trice. If  we  can  do  this,  Cupid  is  no  longer  an 
archer :  his  glory  shall  be  ours,  for  we  are  the  only 
love-gods.  Go  in  with  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  my 
drift.  (Exeunt) 

SCENE  3. 

BENE.  Lady  Beatrice,  have  you  wept  all  this 
while  ? 


54  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

BEAT.    Yea,  and  I  will  weep  a  while  longer. 

BENE.    I  will  not  desire  that. 

BEAT.    You  have  no  reason ;  I  do  it  freely. 

BENE.  Surely  I  do  believe  your  fair  cousin  is 
wronged. 

BEAT.  Ah,  how  much  might  the  man  deserve  of 
me  that  would  right  her ! 

BENE.    Is  there  any  way  to  show  such  friendship  ? 

BEAT.    A  very  even  way,  but  no  such  friend. 

BENE.     May  a  man  do  it? 

BEAT.     It  is  a  man's  office,  but  not  yours. 

BENE.  I  do  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  well  as 
you :  is  not  that  strange  ? 

BEAT.  As  strange  as  the  thing  I  know  not.  It 
were  as  possible  for  me  to  say  I  loved  nothing  so 
well  as  you :  but  believe  me  not ;  and  yet  I  lie  not ; 
I  confess  nothing,  nor  I  deny  nothing.  I  am  sorry 
for  my  cousin. 

BENE.     By  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me. 

BEAT.    Do  not  swear,  and  eat  it. 

BENE.  I  will  swear  by  it  that  you  love  me ;  and 
I  will  make  him  eat  it  that  says  I  love  not  you. 

BEAT.    Will  you  not  eat  your  word  ? 

BENE.  With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to  it. 
I  protest  I  love  thee. 

BEAT.    Why,  then,  God  forgive  me ! 

BENE.    What  offence,  sweet  Beatrice? 

BEAT.  You  have  stayed  me  in  a  happy  hour:  I 
was  about  to  protest  I  loved  you. 

BENE.    And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart. 

BEAT.  I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart  that 
none  is  left  to  protest. 

BENE.    Come,  bid  me  do  anything  for  thee. 

BEAT.    Kill  Claudio. 

BENE.    Not  for  the  wide  world. 

BEAT.    You  kill  me  to  deny  it.    Farewell. 

BENE.    Tarry,  sweet  Beatrice. 

BEAT.  I  am  gone,  though  I  am  here :  there  is  no 
love  in  you.  Nay,  I  pray  you,  let  me  go. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  55 


BENE.    Beatrice- 


BEAT.    In  faith,  I  will  go. 

BENE.     We'll  be  friends  first. 

BEAT.  You  dare  easier  be  friends  with  me  than 
fight  with  mine  enemy. 

BENE.     Is  Claudio  thine  enemy? 

BEAT.  Is  he  not  approved  in  the  height  a  villain, 
that  hath  slandered,  scorned,  dishnooured  my  kins- 
woman ?  O  that  I  were  a  man !  What,  bear  her  in 
hand  until  they  come  to  take  hands ;  and  then  with 
public  accusation,  uncovered  slander,  unmitigated 
rancour, — O  God,  that  I  were  a  man!  I  would 
eat  his  heart  in  the  market-place. 

BENE.     Hear  me,  Beatrice 

BEAT.  Sweet  Hero!  She  is  wronged,  she  is 
slandered,  she  is  undone. 

BENE.     Beat 

BEAT.  Princes  and  counties !  Surely,  a  princely 
testimony,  a  goodly  count,  Count  Com  feet ;  a  sweet 
gallant,  surely !  O  that  I  were  a  man  for  his  sake ! 
or  that  I  had  any  friend  would  be  a  man  for  my 
sake!  But  manhood  is  melted  into  courtesies, 
valour  into  compliment,  and  men  are  only  turned 
into  tongue,  and  trim  ones  too :  he  is  now  as  valiant 
as  Hercules  that  only  tells  a  lie,  and  swears  it.  I 
cannot  be  a  man  with  wishing,  therefore  I  will  die 
a  woman  with  grieving. 

BENE.  Tarry,  good  Beatrice.  By  this  hand,  I 
love  thee. 

BEAT.  Use  it  for  my  love  some  other  way  than 
swearing  by  it. 

BENE.  Think  you  in  your  soul  the  Count  Claudio 
hath  wronged  Hero? 

BEAT.    Yea,  as  sure  as  I  have  a  thought  or  a  soul. 

BENE.  Enough,  I  am  engaged;  I  will  challenge 
him.  I  will  kiss  your  hand,  and  so  I  leave  you. 
By  this  hand,  Claudio  shall  render  me  a  dear 
account.  As  you  hear  of  me,  so  think  of  me.  Go, 


56  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

comfort  your  cousin;  I  must  say  she  is  dead:  an 
so  farewell.  (Exeunt.  SCENE  4.  BENEDICT. 
Enter  BEATRICE.  BENEDICT:)  Sweet  Beatrice, 
wouldst  thou  come  when  I  called  thee? 

BEAT.  Yea,  Signoir,  and  depart  when  you  bid 
me. 

BENE.     O,  stay  but  till  then! 

BEAT.  '  Then  '  is  spoken  ;  fare  you  well  now :  and 
yet,  ere  I  go,  let  me  go  with  that  I  came ;  which  is, 
with  knowing  what  hath  passed  between  you  and 
Claudio. 

BENE.  Only  foul  words;  and  thereupon  I  will 
kiss  thee. 

BEAT.  Foul  words  is  but  foul  wind,  and  foul  wind 
is  but  foul  breath,  and  foul  breath  is  noisome ;  there- 
fore I  wil  depart  unkissed. 

BENE.  Thou  hast  frighted  the  word  out  of  his 
right  sense,  so  forcible  is  thy  wit.  But  I  must  tell 
thee  plainly,  Claudio  undergoes  my  challenge;  and 
either  I  must  shortly  hear  from  him,  or  I  will  sub- 
scribe him  a  coward.  And,  I  pray  thee  now,  tell  me 
for  which  of  my  bad  parts  didst  thou  first  fall  in 
love  with  me  ? 

BEAT.  For  them  all  together ;  which  maintained 
so  politic  a  state  of  evil  that  they  will  not  admit 
any  good  part  to  intermingle  with  them.  But  for 
which  of  my  good  parts  did  you  first  suffer  love 
for  me? 

BENE.  Suffer  love, — a  good  epithet !  I  do  suffer 
love  indeed,  for  I  love  thee  against  my  will. 

BEAT.  In  spite  of  your  heart,  I  think ;  alas,  poor 
heart !  If  you  spite  it  for  my  sake,  I  will  spite 
it  for  yours ;  for  I  will  never  love  that  which  my 
friend  hates. 

BENE.    Thou  and  I  are  too  wise  to  woo  peaceably. 

BEAT.  It  appears  not  in  this  confession ;  there's 
not  one  wise  man  among  twenty  that  will  praise 
himself. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  57 

BENE.  An  old,  old  instance,  Beatrice,  that  lived 
in  the  time  of  good  neighbours.  If  a  man  do  not 
erect  in  this  age  his  own  tomb  ere  he  dies,  he  shall 
live  no  longer  in  monument  than  the  bell  rings  and 
the  widow  weeps. 

BEAT.    How  long  is  that,  think  you? 

BENE.  Question :  why,  an  hour  in  clamour  and 
a  quarter  in  rheum:  therefore  it  is  expedient  for 
the  wise,  if  Don  Worm,  his  conscience,  find  no  im- 
pediment to  the  contrary,  to  be  the  trumpet  to  his 
own  virtues,  as  I  am  to  myself.  So  much  for  prais- 
ing myself,  who,  I  myself  will  bear  witness,  is 
praiseworthy :  and  now  tell  me,  how  doth  your 
cousin  ? 

BEAT.    Very  ill. 

BENE.     And  how  do  you? 

BEAT.    Very  ill  too. 

BENE.  Serve  God,  love  me,  and  mend.  There 
will  I  leave  you  to. 

(SCENE   V.      BENEDICT,    CLAUDIO,    LEONTO,    DON 
PEDRO,  HERO  and  BEATRICE  masked.) 

BENE.    Soft  and  fair,  friar. — Which  is  Beatrice? 

BEAT.  (Unmasking)  I  answer  to  that  name. 
What  is  your  will? 

BENE.    Do  not  you  love  me? 

BEAT.    Why,  no ;  no  more  than  reason. 

BENE. — 

Why,  then  your  uncle  and  the  prince  and  Claudio 
Have  been  deceived ;  they  swore  you  did. 

BEAT.    Do  not  you  love  me? 

BENE.     Troth,  no;  no  more  than  reason. 

BEAT. — 

Why,  then  my  cousin,  Margaret,  and  Ursula 
Are  much  deceived ;  for  they  did  swear  you  did. 

BENE.  They  swore  that  you  were  almost  sick  for 
me. 


58  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

BEAT.  They  swore  that  you  were  well-nigh  dead 
for  me. 

BENE.  'Tis  no  such  matter. — Then  you  do  not 
love  me? 

BEAT.     No,  truly,  but  in  friendly  recompense. 

LEON.  Come,  cousin,  I  am  sure  you  love  the 
gentleman. 

CLAUD. — 

And  Til  be  sworn  upon't  that  he  loves  her ; 
For  here's  a  paper,  written  in  his  hand, 
A  halting  sonnet  of  his  own  pure  brain, 
Fashion'd  to  Beatrice. 

HERO. — 

And  here's  another, 

Writ  in  my  cousin's  hand,  stolen  from  her  pocket, 
Containing  her  affection  unto  Benedick. 

BENE.  A  miracle !  here's  our  own  hands  against 
our  hearts. — Come,  I  will  have  thee ;  but,  by  this 
light,  I  take  thee  for  pity. 

BEAT.  I  would  not  deny  you ;  but,  by  this  good 
day,  I  yield  upon  great  persuasion, — and  partly  to 
save  your  life,  for  I  was  told  you  were  in  a  con- 
sumption. 

BENE.  Peace!  I  will  stop  your  mouth.  (Kiss- 
ing her) 

D.  PERO.  How  dost  thou,  Benedick,  the  mar- 
ried man? 

BENE.  I'll  tell  thee  what,  prince ;  a  college  of 
wit-crackers  cannot  flout  me  out  of  my  humour. 
Dost  thou  think  I  care  for  a  satire  or  an  epigram? 
No :  if  a  man  will  be  beaten  with  brains,  a'  shall 
wear  nothing  handsome  about  him.  In  brief,  since 
I  do  purpose  to  marry,  I  will  think  nothing  to  any 
purpose  that  the  world  can  say  against  it ;  and 
therefore  never  flout  at  me  for  what  I  have  said 
against  it, — for  man  is  a  giddy  thing,  and  this  is 
my  conclusion. — For  thy  part,  Claudio,  I  did  think 
to  have  beaten  thee ;  but  in  that  thou  art  like 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  59 

to  be   my  kinsman,   live   unbruised,   and   love   my 
cousin. 

CLAUD.  I  had  well  hoped  thou  wouldst  have 
denied  Beatrice,  that  I  might  have  cudgelled  thee 
out  of  thy  single  life,  to  make  thee  a  double-dealer ; 
which  out  of  question,  thou  wilt  be  if  my  cousin 
do  not  look  exceeding  narrowly  to  thee. 

BENE.  Come,  come,  we  are  friends :  let's  have 
a  dance  ere  we  are  married,  that  we  may  lighten 
our  hearts  and  wives'  heels. 

LEON.     We'll  have  dancing  afterward. 

BENE.  First,  of  my  word ;  therefore  play,  music. 
— Prince,  thou  art  sad ;  get  thee  a  wife,  get  thee  a 
wife;  there  is  no  staff  more  reverend  than  one 
tipped  with  horn ! — Strike  up  pipers. 

PSYCHE. — 

CURTAIN. 

After  life's  high  enthusiasm  wanes, 

The  soul  drifts  close  upon  a  mist-dimmed  shore: 

The  golden  apple,  sought  so  eagerly, 

Is  plucked  and  found  all  rotten  at  the  core. 

The  Cynic  born  of  dis-illusionment 

Drifts  idly  on  upon  this  stagnant  sea : 

But  some  clear  dawn,  the  heavy  fog-bank  lifts 

And  yawning  reefs  lie  close  upon  the  lea. 

Utter  destruction  menaces  the  soul ; 

For  very  life  it  wrestles  with  despair : 

Yet  just  beyond  the  cruel  jagged  reefs, 

The  Blessed  Islands  smile  a  welcome  fair. 

This  storm  and  streess,  the  soul's  stern  heritage. 

In  "  Winter's  Tale  ",  clear-painted  we  behold : 

Its  own  black  spots  the  soul  must  find  and  cleanse ; 

The  white-hot  furnace  must  refine  the  gold. 

(SCENE  from  "Winter's  Tale":  ACT  5,  SCENE  3, 
ACT  3,  SCENE  2.) 

SCENE  II.     A  Court  of  Justice. 


60  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

(Enter  LEONTES,  Lords,  and  Officers.) 

LEON. — 

This  sessions,  to  our  great  grief  we  pronounce, 
Even  pushes  'gainst  our  heart;  the  party  tried 
The  daughter  of  a  king,  our  wife,  and  one 
Of  us  too  much  beloved.     Let  us  be  cleared 
Of  being  tyrannous,  since  we  so  openly 
Proceed  in  justice,  which  shall  have  due  course, 
Even  to  the  guilt  or  the  purgation. — 
Produce  the  prisoner. 

OFF.— 

It  is  his  highness'  pleasure  that  the  queen 
Appear  in  person  here  in  court. — Silence ! 

(Enter  HERMIONE  guarded;  PAULINA  and  Ladies 
attending. ) 

LEON.    Read  the  indictment. 

OFF.  (Reads)  Hermione,  queen  to  the  worthy 
Leontes,  King  of  Sicilia,  thou  art  here  accused  and 
arraigned  of  high  treason,  in  traitorous  love  with 
Polixenes,  King  of  Bohemia,  and  conspiring  with 
Camillo  to  take  away  the  life  of  our  sovereign 
lord  the  king,  thy  royal  husband ;  the  pretence 
whereof  being  by  circumstances  partly  laid  open, 
thou,  Hermione,  contrary  to  the  faith  and  allegiance 
of  a  true  subject,  didst  counsel  and  aid  them,  for 
their  better  safety,  to  fly  away  by  night. 

HER.— 

Since  what  I  am  to  say  must  be  but  that 
Which  contradicts  my  accusation,  and 
The  testimony  on  my  part  no  other 
But  what  comes  from  myself,  it  shall  scarce  boot 

me 

To  say  '  not  guilty ; '  mine  integrity, 
Being  counted  falsehood,  shall,  as  I  express  it, 
Be  so  received.    But  thus :  if  powers  divine 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  61 

Behold  our  human  actions,  as  they  do, 

I  doubt  not  then  but  innocence  shall  make 

False  accusation  blush,  and  tyranny 

Tremble  at  patience. — You  my  lord,  best  know, 

Who  least  will  seem  to  do  so,  my  past  life 

Hath  been  as  continent,  as  chaste,  as  true, 

As  I  am  now  unhappy ;  which  is  more 

Than  history  can  pattern,  though  devised 

And  play'd  to  take  spectators.     For  behold  me, 

A  fellow  of  the  royal  bed,  which  owe 

A  moiety  of  the  throne,  a  great  king's  daughter, 

The  mother  to  a  hopeful  prince,  here  standing 

To  prate  and  talk  for  life  an  honour  'fore 

Who  please  to  come  and  hear.     For  life,  I  prize  it 

As  I  weigh  grief,  which  I  would  spare ;  for  honour, 

'Tis  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine, 

And  only  that  I  stand  for.     I  appeal 

To  your  own  conscience,  sir,  before  Polixenes 

Came  to  your  court,  how  I  was  in  your  grace, 

How  merited  to  be  so ;  since  he  came, 

With  what  encounter  so  uncurrent  I 

Have  strain'd  to  appear  thus :  if  one  jot  beyond 

The  bound  of  honour,  or  in  act  or  will 

That  way  inclining,  hardened  be  the  hearts 

Of  all  that  hear  me,  and  my  near'st  of  kin 

Cry  fie  upon  my  grave ! 

LEON. — 
I  ne'er  heard  yet 

That  any  of  these  bolder  vices  wanted 
Less  impudence  to  gainsay  what  they  did 
Than  to  perform  it  first 

HER.— 

That's  true  enough ; 
Though  'tis  a  saying,  sir,  not  due  to  me. 

LEON. — 
You  will  not  own  it. 

HER.— 
More  than  mistress  of 


62  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

Which  comes  to  rrie  in  name  of  fault,  I  must  not 

At  all  acknowledge.     For  Polixenes, 

With  whom  I  am  accused,  I  do  confess 

I  loved  him  as  in  honour  he  required. 

With  such  a  kind  of  love  as  might  become 

A  lady  like  me,  with  a  love  even  such, 

So  and  no  other,  as  yourself  commanded ; 

Which  not  to  have  done  I  think  had  been  in  me 

Both  disobedience  and  ingratitude 

To  you  and  toward  your  friend,  whose  love  had 

spoke, 

Even  since  it  could  speak,  from  an  infant,  freely 
That  it  was  yours.     Now,  for  conspiracy, 
I  know  not  how  it  tastes ;  though  it  be  dish'd 
For  me  to  try  how :  all  I  know  of  it 
Is  that  Camillo  was  an  honest  man ; 
And  why  he  left  your  court,  the  gods  themselves, 
Wotting  no  more  than  I,  are  ignorant. 

LEON. — 

You  knew  of  his  departure,  as  you  know 
What  you  have  undertaken  to  do  in  's  absence. 

HER.— 
Sir, 

You  speak  a  language  that  I  understand  not; 
My  life  stands  in  the  level  of  your  dreams, 
Which  I'll  lay  down. 

LEON. — 

Your  actions  are  my  dreams ; 
As  you  were  past  all  shame, — 
Those  of  your  fact  are  so, — so  past  all  truth : 
Which  to  deny  concerns  more  than  avails ;  for  as 
Thy  brat  hath  been  cast  out,  like  to  itself, 
No  father  owning  it, — which  is,  indeed, 
More  criminal  in  thee  than  it, — so  thou 
Shalt  feel  our  justice,  in  whose  easiest  passage 
Look  for  no  less  than  death. 

HER.— 
Sir,  spare  your  threats ; 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  63 

The  terror  you  would  fright  me  with  I  seek. 
To  me  can  life  be  no  commodity : 
The  crown  and  comfort  of  my  life,  your  favour, 
I  do  give  lost ;  for  I  do  feel  it  gone, 
But  know  not  how  it  went.    My  second  joy 
And  first-fruits  of  my  body,  from  his  presence 
I  am  barr'd,  like  one  infectious.     My  third  com- 
fort, 

Starr'd  most  unluckily,  is  from  my  breast, 
The  innocent  milk  in  it  most  innocent  mouth, 
Haled  out  to  murder ;  myself  on  every  post 
Proclaimed ;  lastly,  hurried 
Here  to  this  place,  i'  the  open  air,  before 
I  have  got  strength  of  limit.     Now,  my  liege, 
Tell  me  what  blessings  I  have  here  alive, 
That  I  should  fear  to  die?    Therefore  proceed. 
But  yet  hear  this ;  mistake  me  not :  no  life, 
I  prize  it  not  a  straw ;  but  for  mine  honour, 
Which  I  would  free,  if  I  shall  be  condemned 
Upon  surmises,  all  proofs  sleeping  else 
But  what  your  jealousies  awake,  I  tell  you 
'Tis  rigour  and  not  law. — Your  honours  all, 
I  do  refer  me  to  the  oracle ; 
Apollo  be  my  judge ! 

FIRST  LoRD.i — 
This  your  request 

Is  altogether  just;  therefore  bring  forth. 
And  in  Apollo's  name,  his  oracle. 

(Exit  OFFICER.) 
HER. — 

The  Emperor  of  Russia  was  my  father; 
O  that  he  were  alive,  and  here  beholding 
His  daughter's  trial !  that  he  did  but  see 
The  flatness  of  my  misery, — yet  with  eyes 
Of  pity,  not  revenge ! 

(Re-enter    OFFICER.      OFFICER,    The    Oracle    of 
Apollo.) 


64  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

LEON.    Break  up  the  seals  and  read. 

OFF.  (Reads)  Hermione  is  chastt;  Polixenes 
blameless ;  Camillo  a  true  subject ;  Leontes  a  jealous 
tyrant;  his  innocent  babe  truly  begotten;  and  the 
king  shall  live  without  an  heir,  if  that  which  is  lost 
be  not  found. 

LORDS.    Now  blessed  be  the  great  Apollo ! 

HER.     Praised ! 

LEON.     Hast  thou  read  truth? 

OFF.— 

Ay,  my  lord;  even  so 
As  it  here  set  down. 

LEON. — 

There  is  no  truth  at  all  i'  the  oracle : 
The  sessions  shall  proceed;  this  is  mere  falsehood. 

(Enter  SERVANT.) 

SERV.    My  lord  the  king,  the  king ! 

LEON.     What  is  the  business? 

SERV.     O  sir,  I  shall  be  hated  to  report  it! 
The  prince  your  son,  with  mere  conceit  and  fear 
Of  the  queen's  speed,  is  gone. 

LEON.     How !  gone ! 

SERV.     Is  dead. 

LEON. — 

Apollo's  angry ;  and  the  heavens  themselves 
Do    strike    at    my    injustice. —  (HERMIONE    faints) 
How  now  there ! 

PAUL. — 

This  news  is  mortal  to  the  queen ;  look  down 
And  see  what  death  is  doing. 

LEON. — 

Take  her  hence : 

Her  heart  is  but  overcharged ;  she  will  recover. — 
I  have  too  much  believed  mine  own  suspicion. — 
Beseech  you,  tenderly  apply  to  her 
Some  remedies  for  life. — 

(Exeunt  PAULINE  and  Ladies,  with  HERMIONE.) 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  65 

Apollo,  pardon 

My  great  prof aneness  'gainst  thine  oracle ! 

I'll  reconcile  me  to  Polixenes, 

New  woo  my  queen,  recall  the  good  Camillo, 

Whom  I  proclaim  a  man  of  truth,  of  mercy; 

For,  being  transported  by  my  jealousies 

To  bloody  thoughts  and  to  revenge,  I  chose 

Camillo  for  the  minister  to  poison 

My  friend  Polixenes ;  which  had  been  done, 

But  that  the  good  mind  of  Camillo  tardied 

My  swift  command,  though  I  with  death  and  with 

Reward  did  threaten  and  encourage  him, 

Not  doing  it  and  being  done.     He,  most  humane 

And  fill'd  with  honour,  to  my  kingly  guest 

Unclasp'd  my  practice,  quit  his  fortunes  here, 

Which  you  knew  great,  and  to  the  hazard 

Of  all  incertainties  himself  commended, 

No  richer  than  his  honour. — How  he  glisters 

Thorough  my  rust !  and  how  his  piety 

Does  my  deeds  make  the  blacker ! 

(Re-enter  PAULINE.) 

PAUL. — 
Woe  the  while! 

O,  cut  my  lace,  lest  my  heart,  cracking  it, 
Break  too ! 

FIRST  LORD. — 
What  fit  is  this,  good  lady  ? 

PAUL. — 
When   I   have   said,   cry   '  woe ! ' — the   queen,   the 

queen, 
The  sweet'st,  dear'st  creature's  dead,  and  vengeance 

for't 
Not  dropp'd  down  yet. 

FIRST  LORD. — 
The  higher  powers  forbid ! 

PAUL.I — 

I  say  she's  dead;  I'll  swear  't.     If  word  nor  oath 
Prevail  not,  go  and  see ;  if  you  can  bring 


66  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

Tincture  or  lustre  in  her  lip,  her  eye, 
Heat  outwardly  or  breath  within,  I'll  serve  you 
As  I  would  do  the  gods. — But,  O  thou  tyrant ! 
Do  not  repent  these  things,  for  they  are  heavier 
Than  all  thy  woes  can  stir ;  therefore  betake  thee 
To  nothing  but  despair.    A  thousand  knees 
Ten  thousand  years  together,  naked,  fasting, 
Upon  a  barren  mountain,  and  still  winter 
In  storm  perpetual,  could  not  move  the  gods 
To  look  that  way  thou  wert. 

LEON. — 
Go  on,  go  on ! 

Thou  canst  not  speak  too  much ;  I  have  deserved 
All  tongues  to  talk  their  bitterest. 

FIRST  LORD. — 
Say  no  more ; 

Howe'er  the  business  goes,  you  have  made  fault 
IJ  the  boldness  of  your  speech. 

PAUL. — 

I  am  sorry  for  't ; 

All  faults  I  make,  when  I  shall  come  to  know  them, 
I  do  repent.     Alas !  I  have  show'd  too  much 
The  rashness  of  a  woman ;  he  is  touch'd 
To  the  noble  heart. — What's  gone  and  what's  past 

help 

Should  be  past  grief  :  do  not  receive  affliction 
At  my  petition ;  I  beseech  you,  rather 
Let  me  be  punish'd,  that  have  minded  you 
Of  what  you  should  forget.     Now,  good  my  liege, 
Sir,  royal  sir,  forgive  a  foolish  woman ; 
The  love  I  bore  your  queen — lo,  fool  again ! — 
I'll  speak  of  her  no  more,  nor  of  your  children ; 
I'll  not  remember  you  of  my  own  lord, 
Who  is  lost  too:  take  your  patience  to  you, 
And  I'll  say  nothing. 

LEON. — • 

Thou  didst  speak  but  well 

When  most  the  truth ;  which  I  receive  much  better 
Than  to  be  pitied  of  tjiee.    Prithee,  bring  me 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  67 

To  the  dead  bodies  of  my  queen  and  son : 

One  grave  shall  be  for  both ;  upon  them  shall 

The  causes  of  their  death  appear,  unto 

Our  shame  perpetual.     Once  a  day  I'll  visit 

The  chapel  where  they  lie,  and  tears  shed  there 

Shall  be  my  recreation ;  so  long  as  nature 

Will  bear  up  with  this  exercise,  so  long 

I  daily  vow  to  use  it.     Come  and  lead  me 

To  these  sorrows.     (Exeunt) 

(SCENE  II.    A  chapel  in  PAULINA'S  house.) 

(Enter  LEONTES,  CAMILLO,  PAULINA,  Lords,  and 
Attendants.) 

LEON. — 

0  grave  and  good  Paulina,  the  great  comfort 
That  I  have  had  of  thee ! 

PAUL.— 
What,  sovereign  sir, 

1  did  not  well  I  meant  well.    All  my  services 

You  have  paid  home ;  but  that  you  have  vouch- 
safed, 

With  your  crown'd  brother  and  these  your  con- 
tracted 

Heirs  of  your  kingdoms,  my  poor  house  to  visit, 
It  is  a  surplus  of  your  grace  which  never 
My  life  may  last  to  answer. 

LEON. — 
O  Paulina, 

We  honour  you  with  trouble :  but  we  came 
To  see  the  statue  of  our  queen ;  your  gallery 
Have  we  pass'd  through,  not  without  much  content 
In  many  singularities,  but  we  saw  not 
That  which  my  daughter  came  to  look  upon, — 
The  statue  of  her  mother. 

PAUL. — 

As  she  lived  peerless, 
So  her  dead  likeness,  I  do  well  believe, 


68  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

Excels  whatever  yet  you  look'd  upon 

Or  hand  of  man  hath  done ;  therefore  I  keep  it 

Lonely,  apart.    But  here  it  is ;  prepare 

To  see  the  life  as  lively  mock'd  as  ever 

Still  sleep  mock'd  death.    Behold,  and  say  'tis  well. 

(PAULINA  draws  a  curtain,  and  discovers  HERMIONE 
standing  like  a  statue.) 

I  like  your  silence,  it  the  more  shows  off 

Your  wonder:  but  yet  speak;  first,  you,  my  liege. 

Comes  it  not  something  near? 

LEON. — 

Her  natural  posture  ! — 

Chide  me,  dear  stone,  that  I  may  say  indeed 
Thou  art  Hermione ;  or  rather,  thou  art  she 
In  thy  not  chiding,  for  she  was  as  tender 
As  infancy  and  grace. — But  yet,  Paulina, 
Hermione  was  not  so  much  wrinkled,  nothing 
So  aged  as  this  seems. 

CAM. — 
O,  not  by  much. 

PAUL. — 

So  much  the  more  our  carver's  excellence ; 
Which  lets  go  by  some  sixteen  years,  and  makes  her 
As  she  lived  now. 

LEON. — 

As  now  she  might  have  done, 
So  much  to  my  good  comfort,  as  it  is 
Now  piercing  to  my  soul.    O,  thus  she  stood, 
Even  with  such  life  of  majesty,  warm  life, 
As  now  it  coldly  stands,  when  first  I  woo'd  her ! 
I  am  ashamed ;  does  not  the  stone  rebuke  me 
For  being  more  stone  than  it  ? — O  royal  piece ! 
There's  magic  in  thy  majesty,  which  has 
My  evils  conjured  to  remembrance, 

CAM. — 

My  lord,  your  sorrow  was  too  sore  laid  on, 
Which  sixteen  winters  cannot  blow  away, 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  69 

So  many  summers  dry :  scarce  any  joy 
Did  ever  so  long  live ;  no  sorrow 
But  kill'd  itself  much  sooner. 

PAUL.— 

Indeed,  my  lord, 

If  I  had  thought  the  sight  of  my  poor  image 
Would  thus  have  wrought  you, — for  the  stone  is 

mine, — 
I  'Id  not  have  show'd  it. 

LEON. — 
Do  not  draw  the  curtain. 

PAUL.— 

No  longer  shall  you  gaze  on  't,  lest  your  fancy 
May  think  anon  it  moves. 

LEON. — 
Let  be,  let  be. 

Would  I  were  dead,  but  that,  methinks,  already — 
What  was  he  that  did  make  it? — See,  my  lord, 
Would  you  not  deem  it  breathed?  and  that  those 

veins 
Did  verily  bear  blood  ? 

CAM. — 

Masterly  done ; 
The  very  life  seems  warm  upon  her  lip. 

LEON. — 

The  fixure  of  her  eye  has  motion  in  't, 
As  we  are  mock'd  with  art. 

PAUL.I — 

I'll  draw  the  curtain ; 
My  lord's  almost  so  far  transported  that 
He'll  think  anon  it  lives. 

LEON. — 

0  sweet  Paulina, 

Make  me  to  think  so  twenty  years  together ! 
No  settled  senses  of  the  world  can  match 
The  pleasure  of  that  madness.    Let  't  alone. 
PAUL. — 

1  am  sorry,  sir,  I  have  thus  far  stirr'd  you ;  but 
I  could  afflict  you  farther. 


70  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

LEON. — 
Do,  Paulina ; 

For  this  affliction  has  a  taste  as  sweet 
As  any  cordial  comfort.     Still,  methinks, 
There  is  an  air  comes  from  her;  what  fine  chisel 
Could  ever  yet  cut  breath?    Let  no  man  mock  me, 
For  I  will  kiss  her. 

PAUL. — 

Good  my  lord,  forbear ! 
The  ruddiness  upon  her  lip  is  wet; 
You'll  mar  it  if  you  kiss  it,  stain  your  own 
With  oily  painting.     Shall  I  draw  the  curtain? 

LEON. — 
No,  not  these  twenty  years. 

PAUL. — 
Either  forbear, 

Quit  presently  the  chapel,  or  resolve  you 
For  more  amazement.    If  you  can  behold  it, 
I'll  make  the  statue  move  indeed,  descend 
And  take  you  by  the  hand;  but  then  you'll  think — 
Which  I  protest  against — I  am  assisted 
By  wicked  powers. 

LEON. — 

What  you  can  make  her  do, 
I  am  content  to  look  on ;  what  to  speak, 
I  am  content  to  hear;  for  'tis  as  easy 
To  make  her  speak  as  move. 

PAUL. — 
It  is  required 

You  do  awake  your  faith.    Then  all  stand  still; 
On :  those  that  think  it  is  unlawful  business 
I  am  about,  let  them  depart. 

LEON. —  ; 

Proceed ; 
No  foot  shall  stir. 

PAUL. — 

Music,  awake  her;  strike! — (Music) 
'Tis  time ;  descend ;  be  stone  no  more ;  approach : 
Strike  all  that  look  upon  with  marvel.     Come, 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  71 

I'll  fill  your  grave  up ;  stir,  nay,  come  away, 
Bequeath  to  death  your  numbness,  for  from  him 
Dear  life  redeems  you. — You  perceive  she  stirs. 

(HERMIONE  comes  down.) 

Start  not ;  her  actions  shall  be  holy  as 

You  hear  my  spell  is  lawful.    Do  not  shun  her 

Until  you  see  her  die  again ;  for  then 

You  kill  her  double.     Nay,  present  your  hand : 

When  she  was  young  you  woo'd  her ;  now  in  age 

Is  she  become  the  suitor? 

LEON. — 
O,  she's  warm ! 
If  this  be  magic,  let  it  be  lawful  art 

CAM. — 

She  embraces  him. 
She  hangs  about  his  neck; 
If  she  pertain  to  life,  let  her  speak  too. 
Ay,  and  make  't  manifest  where  she  has  lived, 
Or  how  stolen  from  the  dead. 

PAUL. — 

That  she  is  living, 

Were  it  but  told  you,  should  be  hooted  at 
Like  an  old  tale;  but  it  appears  she  lives, 
Though  yet  she  speak  not.     Mark  a  little  while. — 
Please  you  to  interpose,  fair  madam ;  kneel 
And  pray  your  mother's  blessing. — Turn,  good  lady ; 
Our  Perdita  is  found. 

HER.— 

You  gods,  look  down, 

And  from  your  sacred  vials  pour  your  graces 
Upon  my  daughter's  head ! — Tell  me,  mine  own, 
Where  hast  thou  been  preserved  ?  where  lived  ?  how 

found 

Thy  father's  court?  for  thou  shalt  hear  that  I, 
Knowing  by  Paulina  that  the  oracle 
Gave  hope  thou  wast  in  being,  have  preserved 
Myself  to  see  the  issue. 


72  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

PAUL. — 

There's  time  enough  for  that ; 
Lest  they  desire  upon  this  push  to  trouble 
Your  joys  with  like  relation. — Go  together, 
You  precious  winners  all ;  your  exultation 
Partake  to  every  one.    I,  an  old  turtle, 
Will  wing  me  to  some  withered  bough,  and  there 
My  mate,  that's  never  to  be  found  again, 
Lament  till  I  am  lost. 

LEON. — 

O,  peace,  Paulina ! 

Thou  shouldst  a  husband  take  by  my  consent, 
As  I  by  thine  a  wife ;  this  is  a  match, 
And  made  between  's  by  vows.     Thou  hast  found 

mine ; 

But  how,  is  to  be  questioned ;  for  I  saw  her, 
As  I  thought,  dead,  and  have  in  vain  said  many 
A  prayer  upon  her  grave.    I'll  not  seek  far — 
For  him,  I  partly  know  his  mind — to  find  thee 
An  honourable  husband. — Come,  Camillo, 
And  take  her  by  the  hand,  whose  worth  and  honesty 
Is  richly  noted  and  here  justified 
By  us. — Let's  from  this  place. — Good  Paulina, 
Lead  us  from  hence,  where  we  may  leisurely 
Each  one  demand  and  answer  to  his  part 
Perf orm'd  in  this  wide  gap  of  time  since  first 
We  were  dissever'd.    Hastily  lead  away.    (Exeunt) 

PSYCHE  : — 

CURTAIN. 

The  deadly  secrets  of  the  Labyrinth 
The  seeker  finds  in  his  own  soul  laid  bare ; 
The  Minotaur,  the  Brute  who  lurks,  well-hid 
None  but  himself  can  track  unto  its  lair. 
Yet  in  the  heart  of  him  who  wins  the  fight 
The  Peace  that  passeth  understanding  grows ; 
Though  doubt,  despair,  and  faith  again  re-won 
Is  found  that  perfect  Peace  the  great  soul  knows. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  73 

Behold  in  Prospero,  the  thinker,  scholar 
Waiting  with  placid  heart  whatever  befall 
Knowing  that  joy  or  sorrow,  fate  or  fortune, 
The  mind  in  his  own  place  doth  make  them  all. 

(SCENE  from  the  Tempest.) 
(SCENE  I.     Before  PROSPERO'S  cell.) 

(Enter  FERDINAND,   bearing  a  log.) 
FER. — 

There  be  some  sports  are  painful,  and  their  labour 
Delight  in  them  sets  off:  some  kinds  of  baseness 
Are  nobly  undergone,  and  most  poor  matters 
Point  to  rich  ends.    This  my  mean  task 
Would  be  as  heavy  to  me  as  odious,  but 
The  mistress  which  I  serve  quickens  what's  dead, 
And  makes  my  labours  pleasures :     O,  she  is 
Ten  times  more  gentle  than  her  father's  crabbed, 
And  he's  composed  of  harshness.    I  must  remove 
Some  thousands  of  these  logs,  and  pile  them  up, 
Upon  a  sore  injnncton :  my  sweet  mistress 
Weeps  when  she  sees  me  work,  and  says  such  base- 
ness 

Had  never  like  executor.     I  forget : 
But    these    sweet    thoughts    do    even    refresh    my 

labours, 
Most  busy  lest,  when  I  do  it. 

(Enter    MIRANDA  ;    and    PROSPERO    at    a   distance, 

unseen.) 
MIR.— 

A_las,  now,  pray  you, 

Work  not  so  hard :  I  would  the  lightning  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs  that  you  are  enjoin'd  to  pile ! 
Pray,  set  it  down,  and  rest  you:  when  this  burns, 
'Twill  weep  for  having  wearied  you.     My  father 
Is  hard  at  study ;  pray,  now,  rest  yourself ; 
He's  safe  for  these  three  hours. 


74  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

FER.— 

0  most  dear  mistress, 

The  sun  will  set  before  I  shall  discharge 
What  I  must  strive  to  do. 

MIR. — 

If  you'll  sit  down, 

I'll  bear  your  logs  the  while:  pray,  give  me  that; 
I'll  carry  it  to  the  pile. 

FER. — 
No,  precious  creature ; 

1  had  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back, 
Than  you  should  such  dishonour  undergo, 
While  I  sit  lazy  by. 

MIR. — 

It  would  become  me 

As  well  as  it  does  you :  and  I  should  do  it 
With  much  more  ease ;  for  my  good  will  is  to  it, 
And  yours  it  is  against. 

PROS. — 

Poor  worm,  thou  art  infected! 
This  visitation  shows  it. 

MIR. — 
You  look  wearily. 

FER.— 

No,  noble  mistress ;  'tis  fresh  morning  with  me 
When  you  are  by  at  night.    I  do  beseech  you, — 
Chiefly  that  I  might  set  it  in  my  prayers, — 
What  is  your  name  ? 

MIR. — 

Miranda. — O  my  father, 
I  have  broke  your  hest  to  say  so! 

FER. — 

Admired  Miranda! 
Indeed  the  top  of  admiration !  worth 
What's  dearest  to  the  world !    Full  many  a  lady 
I  have  eyed  with  best  regard,  and  many  a  time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear :  for  several  virtues 
Have  I  liked  several  women ;  never  any 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  75 

With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owed, 
And  put  it  to  the  foil :  but  you,  O  you, 
So  perfect  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best ! 

MIR.— 

I  do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex ;  no  woman's  face  remember, 
Save,  from  my  glass,  mine  own ;  nor  have  I  seen 
More  that  I  may  call  men  than  you,  good  friend, 
And  my  dear  father :  how  features  are  abroad, 
I  am  skilless  of ;  but,  by  my  modesty, 
The  jewel  in  my  dower,  I  would  not  wish 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you ; 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape, 
Besides  yourself,  to  like  of.     But  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father's  precepts 
I  therein  do  forget. 

FER.— 

I  am,  in  my  condition, 
A  prince,  Miranda;  I  do  think,  a  king; 
I  would,  not  so ! — and  would  no  more  endure 
This  wooden  slavery. 
Hear  my  soul  speak : 
The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service ;  there  resides, 
To  make  me  slave  to  it ;  and  for  your  sake 
Am  I  this  patient  log-man. 

MIR. — 
Do  you  love  me? 

FER. — 

0  heaven,  O  earth,  bear  witness  to  this  sound, 
And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind  event, 

If  I  speak  true !  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  me  to  mischief !  I, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  i'  the  world, 
Do  love,  prize,  honour  you. 
MIR. — 

1  am  a  fool 


76  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of. 

PROS. — 
Fair  encounter 

Of  two  most  rare  affections !     Heavens  rain  grace 
On  that  which  breeds  between  'em ! 

FER. — 
Wherefore  weep  you? 

MIR. — 

At  mine  unworthiness,  that  dare  not  offer 
What  I  desire  to  give ;  and  much  less  take 
What  I  shall  die  to  want.    But  this  is  trifling  ; 
And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself, 
The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.    Hence,  bashful  cunning ! 
And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence ! 
I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me ; 
If  not,  I'll  die  your  maid :  to  be  your  fellow 
You  may  deny  me ;  but  I'll  be  your  servant, 
Whether  you  will  or  no. 

FER.— 

My  mistress,  dearest; 
And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

MIR. — 
My  husband,  then? 

FER. — 

Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing 
As  bondage  e'er  of  freedom :  here's  my  hand. 

MIR.; — 
And  mine,  with  my  heart  in't : 

PROS. — 

So  glad  of  this  as  they  I  cannot  be, 
Who  are  surprised  withal;  but  my  rejoicing 
At  nothing  can  be  more. 

PROS.     (Advancing) 
If  I  have  too  austerely  punish'd  you, 
Your  compensation  makes  amends ;  for  I 
Have  given  you  here  a  third  of  mine  own  life, 
Of  that  for  which  I  live ;  who  once  again 
I  tender  to  thy  hand :  all  thy  vexations 
Were  but  my  trials  of  thy  love,  and  thou 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  77 

Hast  strangely  stood  the  test :  here,  afore  Heaven, 

I  ratify  this  my  rich  gift.    O  Ferdinand, 

Do  not  smile  at  me  that  I  boast  her  off, 

For  thou  shalt  find  she  will  outstrip  all  praise, 

And  make  it  halt  behind  her. 

FER.— 

I  do  believe  it. 
Against  an  oracle. 

PROS. — 

Then,  as  my  gift,  and  thine  own  acquisition 
Worthily  purchased,  take  my  daughter : 
Sit,  then,  and  talk  with  her ;  she  is  thine  own. — 
Look  thou  be  true ;  do  not  give  dalliance 
Too  much  the  rein :  the  strongest  oaths  are  straw 
To  the  fire  i'  the  blood :  be  more  abstemious, 
Or  else,  good  night  your  vow ! 

FER.— 

I  warrant  you,  sir ; 

The  white  cold  virgin  snow  upon  my  heart 
Abates  the  ardour  of  my  liver. 

PROS. — 
Well.— 

Now  come,  my  Ariel !  bring  a  corollary, 
Rather  than  want  a  spirit :  appear,  and  pertly ! — 
No  tongue !  all  eyes  !  be  silent.     (Soft  music) 

ARI. — 

You  nymphs,  call'd  Naiads,  of  the  windring  brooks, 
With  your  sedged  crowns  and  ever-harmless  looks, 
Leave  your  crisp  channels,  and  on  this  green  land 
Answer  your  summons ;  Ariel  does  command : 
Come,  temperate  nymphs,  and  help  to  celebrate 
A  contract  of  true  love ;  be  not  too  late. 

(Enter    band    of    sea    NYMPHS.      Dance    of    the 
Nymphs. ) 

PROS.     (Aside) 

I  had  forgot  that  foul  conspiracy 
Of  the  beast  Caliban  and  his  confederates 


78  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

Against  my  life :  the  minute  of  their  plot 
Is  almost  come. — (To  the  SPIRITS)     Well  done! 
avoid ;  no  more ! 

FER. — 

This  is  strange :  your  father's  in  some  passion 
That  works  him  strongly. 

MIR. — 

Never  till  this  day 
Saw  I  him  touched  with  anger  so  distempered. 

PROS.— 

You  do  look,  my  son,  in  a  moved  sort, 
As  if  you  were  dismay'd :  be  cheerful,  sir. 
Our  revels  now  are  ended.    These  our  actors, 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air: 
And,  ilke  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yes,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve, 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind.    We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on ;  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep.     Sir,  I  am  vex'd ; 
Bear  with  my  weakness ;  my  old  brain  is  troubled : 
Be  not  disturbed  with  my  infirmity : 
If  you  be  pleased,  retire  into  my  cell, 
And  there  repose :  a  term  or  two  I'll  walk, 
To  still  my  beating  mind. 

FER.  and  MIR. — 
We  wish  your  peace.     (Exeunt) 


ACT  V. 

(SCENE  I.    Before  the  cell  of  PROSPERO.) 
(Enter  PROSPERO  in  his  magic  robes,  and  ARIEL.) 

PROS.r- 

Now  does  my  project  gather  to  a  head: 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  79 

My  charms  crack  not;  my  spirits  obey;  and  time 
Goes  upright  with  his  carriage.   How's  the  day? 

ARI. 

On  the  sixth  hour;  at  which  time,  my  lord, 
You  said  our  work  should  cease. 

PROS.— 
I  did  say  so, 

When  first  I  raised  the  tempest.     Say,  my  spirit, 
How  fares  the  king  and's  followers? 

ARI. — 

Confined  together 

In  the  same  fashion  as  you  gave  in  charge, 
Just  as  you  left  them ;  all  prisoners,  sir, 
In  the  line-grove  which  weather-fends  your  cell; 
They  cannot  budge  till  your  release.    The  king, 
His  brother,  and  yours,  abide  all  three  distracted, 
And  the  remainder  mourning  over  them, 
Brimful  of  sorrow  and  dismay ;  but  chiefly 
Him  that  you  term'd,  sir,  *  The  good  old  lord,  Gon- 

zalo;  ' 

His  tears  run  down  his  beard,  like  winter's  drops 
From   eaves   of   reeds.     Your   charm   so   strongly 

works  'em, 

That  if  you  now  beheld  them,  your  affectons 
Would  become  tender. 

PROS.— 
Dost  thou  think  so,  spirit  ? 

ARI. — 
Mine  would,  sir,  were  I  human. 

PROS. — 

And  mine  shall. 

Hast  thou,  which  art  but  air,  a  touch,  a  feeling 
Of  their  afflictions,  and  shall  not  myself, 
One  of  their  kind,  that  relish  all  as  sharply, 
Passion  as  they,  be  kindlier  moved  than  thou  art? 
Though  with  their  high  wrongs  I  am  struck  to  the 

quick, 

Yet  with  my  nobler  reason  'gainst  my  fury 
Do  I  take  part :  the  rarer  action  is 


8o  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

In  virtue  than  in  vengeance :  they  being  penitent, 
The  solt  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 
Not  a  frown  further.     Go  release  them,  Ariel: 
My  charms  I'll  break,  their  senses  I'll  restore, 
And  they  shall  be  themselves. 

ARI. — 
I'll  fetch  them,  sir.     (Exit) 

PROS.— 
Ye    elves    of    hills,    brooks,    standing    lakes,    and 

grooves ; 

And  ye  that  on  the  sands  with  printless  foot 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him 
When  he  comes  back ;  and  you  whose  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight  mushrooms,  that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew ;  by  whose  aid — 
Weak  masters  though  ye  be — I  have  bedimm'd 
The  noontide  sun,  call'd  forth  the  mutinous  winds, 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azured  vault 
Set  roaring  war :  to  the  dread  rattling  thunder 
Have  I  given  fire,  and  rifted  Jove's  stout  oak 
With  his  own  bolt;  the  strong-based  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake,  and  by  the  spurs  pluck'd  up 
The  pine  and  cedar :  graves  at  my  command 
Have  waked  their  sleepers,  oped,  and  let  'em  forth 
By  my  so  potent  art.     But  this  rough  magic 
I  here  abjure;  and,  when  I  have  required 
Some  heavenly  music, — which  even  now  I  do, — 
To  work  mine  end  upon  their  senses,  that 
This  airy  charm  is  for,  I'll  break  my  staff, 
Bury  it  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth, 
And  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound 
I'll  drown  my  book.     (Solemn  music) 

(Re-enter   ARIEL    before:    then    ALONSO,    with    a 
frantic  gesturt,  attended  by  GONZALO.) 

A  solemn  air,  and  the  best  comforter 
To  an  unsettled  fancy,  cure  thy  brains, 
O  good  Gonzalo, 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  81 

My  true  preserver,  and  a  loyal  sir 

To  him  thou  f ollow'st !    I  will  pay  thy  graces 

Home  both  in  word  and  deed. — Most  cruelly 

Didst  thou,  Alonso,  use  me  and  my  daughter : 

Thy  brother  was  a  furtherer  in  the  act. — 

I  do  forgive  thee, 

Unnatural  though  thou  art. — 

GON. — 

All  torment,  trouble,  wonder  and  amazement 
Inhabits  here :  some  heavenly  power  guide  us 
Out  of  this  fearful  country ! 

PROS. — 

Behold,  sir  king, 

The  wronged  Duke  of  Milan,  Prospero : 
For  more  assurance  that  a  living  prince 
Does  now  speak  to  thee,  I  embrace  thy  body ; 
And  to  thee  and  thy  company  I  bid 
A  hearty  welcome. 

ALON. — 

Whether  thou  be'st  he  or  no, 
Or  some  enchanted  trifle  to  abuse  me, 
As  late  I  have  been,  I  not  know :  thy  pulse 
Beats,  as  of  flesh  and  blood ;  and,  since  I  saw  thee, 
The  affliction  of  my  mind  amends,  with  which, 
I  fear,  a  madness  held  me :  this  must  crave — 
An  if  this  be  at  all — a  most  strange  story. 
Thy  dukedom  I  resign,  and  do  entreat 
Thou   pardon   me   my   wrongs. — But   how   should 

Prospero 
Be  living  and  be  here  ? 

PROS. — 

First,  noble  friend, 

Let  me  embrace  thine  age,  whose  honour  cannot 
Be  measured  or  confined. 

GON.— 

Whether  this  be 
Or  be  not,  I'll  not  swear. 

PROS. — 
You  do  yet  taste   , 


82  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

Some  subtilties  o'  the  isle,  that  will  not  let  you 
Believe  things  certain. — Welcome,  my  friends  all! 

ALON. — 

If  thou  be'st  Prospero, 
Give  us  particulars  of  thy  preservation ; 
How  thou  hast  met  us  here,  who  three  hours  since 
Were  wrecked  upon  this  shore ;  where  I  have  lost — 
How  sharp  the  point  of  this  remembrance  is ! — 
My  dear  son  Ferdinand. 

PROS.— 
I  am  woe  for't,  sir. 

ALON. — 

Irreparable  is  the  loss ;  and  patience 
Says  it  is  past  her  cure. 

PROS. — 
I  rather  think 

You  have  not  sought  her  help,  of  whose  soft  grace 
For  the  like  loss  I  have  her  sovereign  aid, 
And  rest  myself  content. 

ALON. — 
You  the  like  loss ! 

PROS.— 

As  great  to  me  as  late ;  and,  supportable 
To  make  the  dear  loss,  have  I  means  much  weaker 
Than  you  may  call  to  comfort  you,  for  I 
Have  lost  my  daughter. 

ALON.I — 
A  daughter? 

O  heavens,  that  they  were  living  both  in  Naples, 
The  king  and  queen  there!  that  they  were,  I  wish 
Myself  were  mudded  in  that  oozy  bed 
Where   my   son   lies.     When   did   you   lose   your 
daughter  ? 

PROS. — 

In  this  last  tempest.    I  perceive,  these  lords 
At  this  encounter  do  so  much  admire, 
That  they  devour  their  reason,  and  scarce  think 
Their  eyes  do  offices  of  truth,  their  words 
Are  natural  breath :  but,  howsoe'er  you  have 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  83 

Been  justled  from  your  senses,  know  for  certain 

That  I  am  Prospero,  and  that  very  duke 

Which    was    thrust    forth    of    Milan ;    who    most 

strangely 
Upon  this   shore,   where  you  were  wreck'd,   was 

landed, 

To  be  the  lord  on't.    No  more  yet  of  this ; 
For  'tis  a  chronicle  of  day  by  day, 
Not  a  relation  for  a  breakfast,  nor 
Befitting  this  first  meeting.    Welcome,  sir ; 
This  cell's  my  court :  here  have  I  few  attendants, 
And  subject  none  abroad :  pray  you,  look  in. 
My  dukedom  since  you  have  given  me  again, 
I  will  requite  you  with  as  good  a  thing ; 
At  least  bring  forth  a  wonder,  to  content  ye 
As  much  as  me  my  dukedom. 

(Here  PROSPERO  discovers  FERDINAND  and  MIRANDA 
playing  at  chess.) 

MIR. — 
Sweet  lord,  you  play  me  false. 

FER. — 

No,  my  dear'st  love, 
I  would  not  for  the  world. 

MIR. — 

Yes,  for  a  score  of  kingdoms  you  should  wrangle, 
And  I  would  call  it  fair  play. 

ALON. — 
If  this  prove 

A  vision  of  the  island,  one  dear  son 
Shall  I  twice  lose. 

GON. — 
A  most  high  miracle! 

FER.— 

Though  the  seas  threaten,  they  are  merciful; 
I  have  cursed  them  without  cause.     (Kneels) 

ALON. — 
Now  all  the  blessings 


84  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

Of  a  glad  father  compass  thee  about ! 
Arise  and  say  how  thou  earnest  here. 

MIR. — 
O,  wonder ! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here ! 
How  beauteous  mankind  is !     O  brave  new  world, 
That  has  such  people  it't ! 

PROS. — 
'Tis  new  to  thee. 

ALON. — 

What  is  this  maid  with  whom  thou  wast  at  play  ? 
Your  eld'st  acquaintance  cannot  be  three  hours : 
Is  she  the  goddess  that  hath  sever'd  us, 
And  brought  us  thus  together? 

FER.— 

Sir,  she  is  mortal ; 

But  by  immortal  Providence  she's  mine : 
I  chose  her  when  I  could  not  ask  my  father 
For  his  advice,  nor  thought  I  had  one.     She 
Is  daughter  to  this  famous  Duke  of  Milan, 
Of  whom  so  often  I  have  heard  renown, 
But  never  saw  before ;  of  whom  I  have 
Received  a  second  life ;  and  second  father 
This  lady  makes  him  to  me. 

ALON. — 
I  am  hers : 

But,  O,  how  oddly  will  it  sound  that  I 
Must  ask  my  child  forgiveness ! 

PROS. — 

There,  sir,  stop: 

Let  us  not  burthen  our  remembrances  with 
A  heaviness  that's  gone. 

GON. — 

I  have  inly  wept, 
Or  should  have  spoke  ere  this.     Look  down,  you 

gods, 

And  on  this  couple  drop  a  blessed  crown ! 
For  it  is  you  that  have  chalk'd  forth  the  way 
Which  brought  us  hither. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE.  85 

ALON. — 
I  say,  Amen,  Gonzalo ! 

GON.-- 

Was  Milan  thrust  from  Milan,  that  his  issue 
Should  become  kings  of  Naples  ?    O,  rejoice 
Beyond  a  common  joy !  and  set  it  down 
With  gold  on  lasting  pillars.    In  one  voyage 
Did  Claribel  her  husband  find  at  Tunis, 
And  Ferdinand,  her  brother,  found  a  wife 
Where  he  himself  was  lost,  Prospero  his  dukedom 
In  a  poor  isle,  and  all  of  us  ourselves 
When  no  man  was  his  own. 

ALON.     (To  FERDINAND  and  MIRANDA) 
Give  me  your  hands : 

Let  grief  and  sorrow  still  embrace  his  heart 
That  doth  not  wish  you  joy ! 

GON. — 
Be  it  so !    Amen ! 

PROS.— 

Sir,  I  fnvite  your  Highness  and  your  train 
To  my  poor  cell,  where  you  shall  take  your  rest 
For  this  one  night ;  which,  part  of  it,  I'll  waste 
With  such  discourse  as,  I  not  doubt,  shall  make  it 
Go  quick  away :  the  story  of  my  life, 
And  the  particular  accidents  gone  by 
Since  I  came  to  this  isle :  and  in  the  morn 
I'll  bring  you  to  your  ship,  and  so  to  Naples, 
Where  I  have  hope  to  see  the  nuptial 
Of  these  our  dear-beloved  solemnized ; 
And  thence  retire  me  to  my  Milan,  where 
Every  third  thought  shall  be  my  grave. 

ALON. — 
I  long 

To  hear  the  story  of  your  life,  which  must 
Take  the  ear  strangely. 

PROS. — 
I'll  deliver  all; 

And  promise  you  calm  seas,  auspicious  gales, 
And  sail  so  expeditious,  that  shall  catch         ,    , , 


86  THE  MASQUE  OF  PSYCHE. 

Your  royal  fleet  far  off. — (Aside  to  ARIEL)     My 

Ariel,  chick, 

That  is  thy  charge :  then  to  the  elements 
Be  free,  and  fare  thou  well! — Please  you,  draw 

near.     (Exeunt) 

CURTAIN. 

PSYCHE. — 

I,  Psyche,  once  again  the  portals  close 
Through  which  ye  gazed  into  the  changing  soul. 
Diversion,  charm,  beauty  of  thought  and  line 
The  poet  gave :  yet  more  rests  in  his  scroll. 
Faith  in  a  good  triumphant  Shakespeare  taught 
Though  in  his  scheme  of  life,  111  plays  a  part, 
As  Furnace  to  refine  the  alloyed  gold 
Which  lies  within  the  poorest  human  heart. 
The  Patriarch,  Job,  'mid  his  affliction  sore 
Found  keenest  torment  in  his  doubt  unsolved — 
"  Why  do  the  righteous  suffer,  O  my  Lord  ?  " 
Prometheus,  bound,  while  aeons  slow  revolved 
Defied  a  God  who  showed  caprice  toward  man; 
Faust  the  magician  found  his  art  was  vain 
To  prove  to  man  that  life  was  worth  the  living, 
And  Hamlet  struggled  with  this  vampire  yet  again. 
For  him  who  understands,  our  poet  breathes 
A  hope  sublime ;  'tis  his  alone  to  read 
Who  fights  and  wins  Doubt's  battle  in  his  soul; 
The  Vision  springs  from  his  own  anguished  need. 

CURTAIN. 


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